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THE LADYE CHACE 



A BALLAD. 



"For there be those so apt, credulous and facile to love, 
that if they hear of a proper man, or woman, they are in 
love before they see them, and that merely by relation." 

Burton. 



[cabinet edition.] 



XEW YORK : 

L I P P I X C O T T & CO 

1876. 







Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, 
by Martin Taylor, in the office of the Librarian of 
Congress, at Washington. 



PREFACE. 



This ballad, written forty years ago, and pub- 
lished not long afterwa'rds, in one of the periodicals 
of the day, has ever since been withdrawn from 
circulation. A small edition is now reprinted in a 
revised form, chiefly with a design to secure it from 
possible republication without the corrections of 
its author's maturer judgment. 

To a place in the literary memoirs of the first cen- 
tury of the Republic, the author ventures to regard 
it as having at least one claim. The war which 
closed in 1815, had revived and embittei'ed the old 
revolutionary spirit of hostility to the mother coun- 
try : and few indeed were the youthful minds of 
the following generation, in which associations of 
Literature and Religion predominated over pre- 
judices which were supposed to be patriotic. This 
ballad is evidence that the sincerest love of countrj' 
may co-exist with a hereditary love for the land 
to which we owe our civilization, our language 
and our holy faith. It was written in all the ar- 
dor of young enthusiasm for English history, and 
for that legendary lore to which Bishop Percy's 



" Reliques" and Scott's " Minstrelsy" had recalled 
the popular mhid. If ever an American school of 
writers shall be developed, in entire harmony with 
the generous spirit of English literature, and there- 
fore all the more true to the historic principles of 
the Republic, it is the author's trust that he may 
have a recognized place, however humble, among 
the pioneers of a fraternal unity which must be so 
full of benefit to mankind. 

The life of the author has been devoted to grave 
pursuits, to which this romantic ballad presents 
such a contrast, that he now reprints it as an 
anonymous waif. It may be safe to give it a cor- 
rected form, but he craves for it no circulation be- 
j'ond the limited sphere of personal friendship. 
It appears with some omissions, and with the 
restoration of some passages which were crowded 
out of the pages to which it was originally con- 
tributed. The revision has been the occasional 
work of the author's vacations ; and for its publi- 
cation, at this time, he is indebted to the kind 
assistance of a literary friend, who not only cor- 
rects the press but has materially helped the author 
by his critical suggestions. 

Leacote, 
1876. 



TO META, 

ONLY DAUGHTER OF THE LATE 

CHARLES KEITH HYDE, ESQ. 



Because I love thee, and because thou art 
Thy father's child ; and for that memory 

Of his true worth endears thee to my heart ; 
And for thy mother, whose bright heraldry 
Is her least glory ; therefore, these, to thee 

I dedicate, dear Meta. Thou may'st read 
My bo^dsh ballad with a maiden's glee, 

For they were young who first bestowed its meed ; 

Now, golden harps are theirs, and mine the mourn- 
er's weed. 

2. 

To grow like trees of reverend root sublime 

I fain would teach my country. Ours the spoil 
Of a great past, that to our western clime 

Pours forth the wealth of olden tide and toil ; 

And who would spring, the fungus of the soil, 
Unglorified with ancient wit and worth ? 

But thy sweet youth, as 'twere the lily's foile, 
Hath bloom'd and blossom'd. Lovely from thy 

birth. 
As thy first years have been, be all thy days on 
earth. 



And learn betimes of by-gone days the lore, 
Not to misuse nor misconceive thine own ; 

For here, where all is new, and tales of yore 

Enrich no scene, invest no mountain lone, 

Nor lend the voice of brook and breeze their 
tone, 

'Tis but to breathe a hermit, or a brute. 

To know no life beyond our clime or zone ; 

Of hoary eld to deem the voices mute ; 

To leave of all we love unsought the parent root. 

4- 
But I have toiled historic truth to know, 

Have made it mine ; and if fresh fields are ours. 
Here let my hand some fruitful seeds down throw. 

Of Faith and Right. Seek thou no fairer bowers 

Than Fairfax found, who left his ivied towers 
For Shenandoah, in Virginia's wild. 

If idly there, amid its wreaths and flowers. 
Thou shalt read o'er my lay, delightful child, 
Recall its moral oft, to fancy undefiled. 

1873- 



pro5:me. 
I. 

1. O who has not heard of the Northmen of yore, 
How flew, like the seabird, their sails from the 

shore, 

How, westward, they stayed not, till, breast- 
ing the brine. 

They hailed Narraganset, the land of the vine. 

2. Then the war-songs of Rollo, his pennon and 

glaive. 

Were heard as they danced by the moon- 
lighted wave. 

And their golden-haired wives bore them sons 
of the soil. 

While raged with the redskins their feud and 
turmoil, 

3. And who has not seen, 'mid the summer's gay 

crowd. 
That old pillar'd tower of their fortalice proud. 
How it stands solid proof of the sea chieftains' 

reign, 
Ere came with Columbus those galleys of 

Spain. 



4- 'Twas a claim for their kindred : an earnest of 
sway, 

By the stout-hearted Cabot, made good, in its 
day ; 

Of the Cross of St. George, on the Chesa- 
peake's tide, 

Where lovely Virginia arose like a bride. 

5. Came the pilgrims with Winthrop ; and, saint 

of the West, 
Came Robert of Jamestown, the brave and the 

blest ; 
Came Smith, the bold rover, and Rolfe — with 

his ring. 
To wed sweet Matoaka, child of a king. 

6. Undaunted they came, every peril to dare. 
Of tribes fiercer far than the wolf in his lair; 
Of the wild irksome woods, where in ambush 

they laj^ ; 
Of their terror bj' night and their arrow by day. 

7. And so where our capes cleave the ice of the 

poles. 
Where groves of the orange scent sea-coast 

and shoals. 
Where the froward Atlantic uplifts its last 

crest, 
Where the sun, when he sets, seeks the East 

from the West : 



8. The clime that from ocean to ocean expands, 
The fields to the snow-drifts that stretch from 

the sands, 
The wilds they have conquered, of mountain 

and plain. 
Those pilgrims have made them fair Freedom's 

domain. 

9. And the bread of dependence if proudly they 

spurned, 
'Twas the soul of their fathers that kindled 

and burned, 
'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them that 

ran ; 
They held— to be free is the birthright of man. 

10. So oft the old lion, majestic of mane, 

Sees cubs of his cave breaking loose from his 

reign ; 
Unmeet to be his if they braved not his eye. 
He gave them the spirit his own to defy. 

II. 

I. Then Albion be true to thyself in thy sons, 
And honour thy blood in thine offspring that 

runs; 
It ripens with aging like generous wine. 
And warms to its kindred with impulse di- 
vine. 



2. And the birthright we scorned when a dole it 

was flung, 

Our kindred with England, her faith and her 
tongue, 

We claim it unchalleng'd, or grudge it who 
may, 

A continent holds it : what churl can gain- 
say ? 

3. Avaunt the mere islander cribb'd by his 

shores. 
Whose soul, like his eyesight, no distance ex- 
plores ! 
With instinct imperial disdaining its girth. 
The true heart of England embraces the earth. 

4. The family Bible, 'tis one and the same ; 

We read in their churchyards the family 

name; 
Of grim elder brothers cadets we may roam. 
But theirs is the homestead that once was our 

home. 

5. No foreigners we when we visit thy strand, 
For the bones of our forefathers rest in the 

land ; 
Our Faith at thine altars unsullied we find, 
Our laws in thy charters, thy manners, thy 

mind. 



6. By the James and the Hudson, the Gulf and 

the Lakes, 
Thy voice from the Past living echoes awakes; 
To the spell of thy song and the might of thy 

thought, 
We yield a fresh empire, with homage unbought. 

7. And gen'rous the feeling that claims them as 

ours. 

Those schools of thine Alfred, those temples 
and towers. 

Like Hellks, new races thy name shall com- 
bine ; 

Where English is spoken, its glory is thine. 

8. Our mothers still teach us thy story of old 
Where the cradle is rock'd and the lullaby 

trolled ; 
And the harp of our West, 'tis the same that 

was strung 
Where thy graj^-bearded minstrel the roundelay 

sung. 

Q. Its far distant warblings— he heard them who 

stood 
Where Snowdon uplifted its crown o'er the 

flood; 
Those visions of glory he feared to explore. 
Behold them unfolded; they brighten our shore. 



10. Then hail, Mother Albion ! and long may they 

twine 

Thy banner with ours and our banner with 
thine, 

Till broad o'er new nations, those ensigns un- 
furled 

Give laws to earth's races, and peace to the 
world. 

11. And scorn not my numbers, albeit with awe 
My fingers unskill'd o'er the chords I must 

draw. 

While, a lay of thine Eld, in this far West- 
ern clime, 

I sing an old ballad, of England's old time. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



FYTTE I. 
MAID MARIAN. 



I. 

Come list a lay of old romance, 
The witch-work of a ladye's glance ; 
Of such an eye as doth express 
Far more than Hera's loveliness ; 
The azure which, from o'er the water, 
The Saxon gave to Albion's daughter, 
What time the victor, in his pride, 
Was vanquished by his English bride, 
Nor crossed again the surges' swell, 
But chose with his young Mdfe to dwell, 
Where, sea-girt, on her island steep, 
Britannia's trident awes the deep. 
From these, Atlantis' daughters sprung ; 
From these, the music of our tongue 
Spreads o'er new worlds, and win? the wild 
To Wisdom's precepts undefiled. 



14 THE LADYE CHACE. 

II. 

O'er Devon's valleys mounts the morn: 
And, as through clouds the day is break- 
ings 
Oh, hear them wind the merry horn ; 

The startled woods around are waking I 
Gaily they echo to thy call. 
Old Nimrod of a royal hall: 
Blow long and loud: though, far and near, 
Start at the sound the mountain deer : 
For gathering fast from moor and glen. 
Throng to the sport the merry-men ; 
And forth from court and cotter's door. 
Briskly the early sportsmen pour, 
While, fragrant as from new mown hay, 
The morning air comes sweet as May. 

III. 

The castle court is all alive. 

As when the bee-queen leaves her hive ; 

And forth they come ; the dawning light 

Gleams on the crests of thane and knight, 

And flashes from the shiny bow, 

Like beams on rigs of driven snow. 



THE LADVE CHACE. 15 

They come ; — in sooth, no mean array, 
The noblest of the land are they. 

And pleasant is the show. 
Around, their coursers neigh for sport, 
And champ the bit with pride of port, 

Oft wheeling to and fro ; 
Anear, bedizened pages wait ; 

And thralls impatient throng, 
Content with cruel thraldom's fate 

To scud like hounds along, 
And claim in every dog a mate. 

That spurns the tethering thong. 
Awhile the eager pack await 

The keeper's whistle shrill, 
As gathered by the massy gate. 

The huntsmen loiter still. 
The vassal loathes the dull delay, 
And chides the fast-advancing day ; 
And still the fretful horses wheel. 
Impatient of the curb they feel. 
Oh, merry may their hunting be, 
As lively is their rout to see ; 

And worthy be their game ! 



l6 THE LADYE CHACE. 

St. Hubert speed their sport aright, 
And many a buck shall rue, ere night, 
That here to hunt they came. 

IV. 

But hark ! once more the horn is wound, 
And forth the ready coursers bound. 
While springing to the sylvan fray 
Dogs, serfs and pages are away. 
Away, as blithe, as light as air ; 
There's not a lagging dullard there. 
Though more sedate, in native pride, 
The lords than their retainers ride ; 
Amused so soon their serfs to see. 
Far, far afield careering free, 
And smiling as the full halloo 
Comes faintly from the boisterous crew. 
Onward they fly o'er plain and hill, 
O'er mound and valley onward still, 
And with the breeze they fleet along ; 

The early peasant hears their cry, 
And pauses, pleased to hail the throng. 

And cheer their coursers sweeping by. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 17 

V. 

Slow moves that group of lordly blood : 
While now, perchance, by gay greenwood, 
The carles their dull approach abide. 
Each wishing some one else might dare 
To break the harmless victim's lair. 
With hark-away ; but reckless all. 
Alike of hasty hound and thrall, 
They choose their time. And of the crowd, 
Amid the proudest seeming proud, 
What twain are those— whose steeds appear 
More haughtily their heads to rear, 
As conscious that they paw the ground 
Beneath the chief of all around. 
And bend the arching neck and mane 
To hands well used rash men to rein. 
Their mantles are inwove with gold ; 
Their arms two tabard heralds hold. 
Whereon, impressed in glitt'ring lines. 
The cross of our redemption shines. 
The one, unmarked by star or gem, 
Whose brow bespeaks his diadem, 
Hath alien kings around to wait. 
And dukes of many a foreign state. 



1 8 THE LAD YE CHACE. 

Who may he be ? — I fain would reck 

That hath brave Hoel at his beck? 

For Arvon sends her royal line 

In his superior light to shine ; 

And Kenneth, too, behind him rides, 

And Cumberland's proud prince besides ; 

And Alwyn of the north countree. 
And Angus of the Isles is there ; 

And many a lord from over sea. 
And many a border monarch's heir. 
If even their sports encumbered seem 
With arms that one might useless deem, 
The Marches bristling still with feud 
May tell why spear and helm intrude. 

VI. 

And Alban of the Dale attends, 

Forgetting now his burning song, 
Though oft his wilder art he lends 

To wind the bugle's larum strong ; 
For the young bard is hunter now, 

'Mid laughing churls and listless squires, 
Though high-born pride is on his brow, 

And he is sprung of princely sires — 



THE LADYE CHACE. 19 

A poet race, and nobly born, 

That waked in royal halls their lyres. 
And had not blushed to see, this morn, 
Their heir so proud a chase adorn. 
With quivered shafts behind him swung, 
Where erst the holier harp was slung. 
And winding oft the hunter's horn 

With ardent hopes and high desires. 
Forgetful of the lays they sung, 

But warmed with all their minstrel fires. 

VII. 

Oh, who the pair, but England's king, 

And England's noblest peer ? 
'T is Edgar foremost of the ring, 

'T is Athwold riding near. 
King Edward rules this noble rout ; 

A jovial prince is he. 
And well he loves, the woods about. 
To raise the forest-rover's shout, 

Like those of low degree — 
Who yet have sov'reigns of their own, 
Who claim a palace and a throne 

By every greenwood tree, ■ 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



And deem themselves as royal there — 
In Nature's wilds and God's free air, 

By right divine — as he. 
And Athwold is his favorite lord, 
His friend of bosom and of board ; 
For all his deep concern he shares, 
And, dearer than the crown he wears 
Hath Edgar loved him; and hath made 
His wish the sceptre that he swayed. 
And Athwold, of his court, alone 
Hath such high favour of the throne, 
To meet his king with friendly speech. 
And schemes of war or peace to teach. 
Ev'n now, behold ! as on they fare, 
He feels his ministerial care. 
And deeply counsels — as I trow. 
For earnestly he knits his brow. 
Some plan of pleasure or of state. 
With sage advice and deep debate. 

VIII. 
So forth and onward till they gain 
The forest's side. The waiting train 
Cheer their approach, and quick prepare. 
From tangled copse, his quiet lair, 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



To rouse their antler'd foe, and launch 
Upon his track the blood-hounds staunch. 
Right noble game ! at rest, and laid 
In the brown thicket's cooling shade, 
He hears not yet the larum yell 
That peals along the distant dell, 
Nor dreams that, ere the dew-drops dry 
On his green couch, his limbs shall lie 
Full many a weary mile afar. 
Mangled and rent with many a scar. 
Oh, could the hunters see him now, 
Those shapely sides, that stately brow, 
His quiet rest the rill beside, 
The wild-flowers scattered on his hide. 
Would they no pity call to mind ? 
No mercy show ? — would Athwold wind 
So loud th' exciting horn ? I ween, 
Knew Athwold what this chace doth mean, 
Knew he his monarch's hidden thought, 
And who the real quarry sought. 
Knew he what forecast plann'd this day. 
What game within its gaming lay. 
He had not been so blithe. But hark, 
The greedy pack's delighted bark 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



Hath scared from coverts deep their prey ; 
The hunt is up ! — away, away ! 

IX. 

Away ! — and aye away with pride ! 
The lordling by the menial's side 
Now speeds amid the scampering throng. 
And scours the beaten glade along. 
The monarch leads the merry crew ; 

Full gaily on they fly : 
And cheerily, Lord Athwold, too, 

Peals out the hunting cry. 
He shouts as joyous as the rest. 
As careless bears his feather'd crest. 
As loudly chides each lagging hound, 
As' swiftly clears the echoing ground ; 
Till now they dash the wild -wood thro' : 
And as each hunter leaves the view, 
Mellows afar the shrill halloo. 

X. 

And long they chased, and far they rode. 
Till now the sultry noon-tide glowed. 
The stag has left the forest deep. 
But still th' unwearied race they keep. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 23 

And woe for him ! — his branching brow 
And ev'n his hoof is heavy now. 
What boots it that, as swift as wind, 
He flies, when hounds, as fleet, behind, 
Still follow on his weary track. 
And howl their hunger at his back ? 
What boots it that the tears are pouring 
Down his dun cheeks from eyes imploring, 
When they who cheer the chase, the while 
Can look on human tears, and smile ? 
What boots it that his harmless hide, 
Rashed in the brake, with blood is dyed, 
When, of that reckless rout, the half 
Can look on human blood and laugh ? 
Men are but wolves. The panting deer 
The blood-hounds, panting too, can hear ; 
Then swifter starts he ; but the pack, 
Hot-toothed, is springing at his back. 
With bound and yell they close around ; 

The foremost dog has torn his flank, 
And now, another, with a bound. 
Bears his bold frontlet to the ground. 

Where, on a green and flowery bank, 
To fiercer man and ravening hound 



24 THE LADYE CHACE. 

He yields at last. A shining dart — 
'Tis Alban's — pierces to his heart : 
Forth foams the gore ; the rocky dell 
Echoes with hounds' and hunters' yell ; 
And gathering fast, with failing breath, 
The merry archers hail the death. 

XI. 

Scramble the gaping churls around 
To marvel o'er the skillful wound. 
They praise the king's unrivall'd craft ; 
The head was grazed by Edgar's shaft. 
And Alban's, if more deftly aimed, 
Might yet for impudence be blamed. 
And all within that greenwood glen, 
How goodly are the gathered men 

For poet's eye to see : ' 

A peaceful war, at worst, is done. 
Which gentlest maid may look upon 

With scarce a weeping e'e. 
And though the bard of warlike lay 
Might scorn the hunting of this day, 

'Tis fitter far for me. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 25 

Than ghastly tales of olden time 
That live in ancient minstrels' rhyme, 

Though smoothly glossed they be. 
And who shall look at yonder throng, 
Where now the bold young heart, and 
strong, 

Beats warm from such a race, 
Nor own 'tis fairer than the field 
Where stain'd was each brave hunter's 
shield. 

And blanched each ruddy face; 
Where shuddering mothers looked, with fear, 
For sons they bore, and found them near, 

Their's, though in Death's embrace : 
Where the young wife, with boding breast. 
Sought her boy's sire, and found — his crest; 
Slow raised his mask, and shriek'd the rest, 
• In proud old Chevy- Chace ? 

XII. 

Not such King Edgar's hunt to-day ; 

But list his stern command : 
He speaks, and ready to obey, 

The startled pages stand. 



2.6 THE LADYE CHACE. 

" Boy, let thy palfrey bear the deer 
Speedy to Harewood Castle, near ; 
For sure the castle nigh must be. 
And, Athwold, I would dine with thee ; 
Long have I hoped thy halls to see." 

XIII. 

There are who in their coffins wake, 
And strive the swathing fold to break, 
And, gasping, draw the stifled air, 
And ope their eyes, in darkness — where ? 
Those eyes, which, even now in dreams 

Or roving trance, were all delight, 
Mid visions fair of angel-beams. 

And fields of heavenly beauty bright ; 
There are, when breaks the fairy spell, 

And fleeteth in their fearful waking. 
Whose heaven seems changed, at once, for 
hell, 

And space, for bonds that know no break- 
ing. 
Then wildly o'er the buried soul 
A thousand thoughts convulsive roll, 

Of those dear hands that lowly laid him, 
And piled the thumping clods above ; 



THE LADYE CHACE. 27 

Of that false swooning that betrayed him, 
Mid unavaihng tears of love ; 
All with the sense of struggles chained, 
Of long delaying death restrained ; 

The consciousness that all is o'er ; 
That his own dreaming wove his shroud ; 

That he awakes to wake no more, 
Unheard though he should call aloud. 
So, with that challenge of the king. 
Broke Athwold's long, sweet slumbering ; 

So did he wake to know 'twas over, 
The sleep of a delightful vision ; 

The fairy dreamings of the lover. 
His wand'rings in a world Elysian. 
He woke, to feel at once his fall ; 
And, like the swimmer, in appal, 
O'erspent, to close on life his eye, 
To grasp the floating straw, and die. 

XIV. 

The courtier started at the word ; 

Vanished the colour from his cheek ; 
He spoke no welcome to his lord ; 

His lips were blanch'd — he could not 
speak. 



28 THE LADVE CHACE. 

He trembled — well he might — the while 
He gazed on Edgar's look of guile, 
" Yes, all is o'er ! " he thought ; then broke 
" His coward spell, and stammering spoke : 
' ' My liege, though well my pride might 

court . 
Such ending of our morning's sport, 
Much do 1 fear 'tis far to go, 
While the hot noonday scorches so. 

'Tis yet full many a weary mile 
Before my dark old towers appear ; 

And when 'tis gained, the dreary pile 
Hath little for my sov'reign's cheer. 

'Twere shame my loyal halls should be 

Unready such a guest to see, 

Too poor, at best, my liege, for thee ! 
There is a forester lives near ; 
Lives, as they tell, on thy good deer ; 
A poaching fellow ! in his den 
Oft harbouring the merry-men ; 
And, well-a-day ! his outlaw hold 
Were worth thy sight ! Strange tales are told 
Of the gay revels sported there. 
He hath a daughter passing fair. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 29 

With lip and eye to charm a king ; 

A fairy, tripping, pixy thing, 

That of her father's best shall bring ; 

And gaily old green- wood shall ring. 
Ho, ho ! young Alban of the Dale, 
What is thy fright? — why look'st so pale 
My liege, this minstrel, chance, may tell 
More of this low-born damosel. 

I know her but from tales ; from song 
This rogue romancer might repeat. 

Come, Alban, thou hast known her long; 
Hast found young Marian's kisses sweet? " 

XV. 

Burned Alban's beardless cheek, while loud 
Rung the loose laughter of the crowd ; 
And nigh his hiked hand had sped 
His anger on Lord Ath wold's head. 
But, with a thought, resentment chose 
More dire revenge. The laughter rose ; 
And Alban, falteringly, replied : 
* ' Nay, then, if thus my loves you chide, 
'Tis so, the maid of Croswell Water 
Was but an honest woodman's daughter ; 



30 THE LADYE CHACE. 

I found her on a hunting day, 
When I was weary and astray. 
She seemed some goddess of the wood ; 
And, for a moment, mute I stood, 
Then knelt and caught her trembling hand 
And worshipped, till her sweet command 
Bade me arise ; methought she ne'er 
Had seen a youth of manly air : 
Yet fearless was her sweet consent : 
Abashed, and all so innocent. 
She loved, but knew not what it meant. 
And I loved her. You know the rest ; 

'Twas ever so when hearts agree : 
She had to mine an answ'ring breast. 

And that was all the mystery. 
I was awhile her father's guest ; 
And never youth a lovelier press'd 
To his warm heart than Alban then. 
Who deemed him happiest of men 
While Marian loved him — but, alas ! 
So ever morning's glories pass : 
The step the dawn's bright dews knew 

well 
Hies now no more, along the dell, 



THE LADVE CHACE. 3 1 

To find, embower'd with eglantine, 
Her heart's own dearest haunt, and mine. 
With Spring's young buds she drooped 

away. 
And Marian only lives, to-day, 
In her lorn lover's cheerless lay. 

XVI, 

The turf is sunken on her grave. 

Though there the weeping flower-cups wave, 

And forest-birds green leaves have strown 

Upon the mound and cross of stone 

That mark where, 'mid the wild-wood's 

roses. 
Their fair twin-forester reposes. 
Soft be her rest in that green wild. 
And — Holy Angels guard their child ! 
So sadly ends, my liege, the tale, 

For sad my early fate hath been. 
And the poor minstrel of the Dale 

Thus young, the poet's fate hath seen. 
That fate full oft my harp and I 
Have mourned when Athwold hath been 
nigh: 



32 THE LADYE CHACE. 

And now the transient dream is o'er, 
Basely he probes afresh the sore, 
As tattling of her father's cot, 
He lords it o'er a lowly lot. 

XVIL 

For what, false Athwold — though my bride 

Was not, like thine, the heir of pride ; 

What though the song I harp to thee 

So oft, of thine own history. 

Hath brighter close, and bids me chaunt 

Thy triumph in the dark romaunt, 

Say, traitor, if thou dar'st " 

But "Peace!" 

King Edgar spake — "Thy quarrel cease ! 

Alban, I'll hear this tale of thine 

Some other day, so thou'lt hear mine. 

Perchance my song shall prove as sweet ; 

But, zounds ! how burns this noontide 

heat! 

Come, Athwold, I must Harewood see, 

Why should a friend so formal be ? 

Well know'st thou, certes, that thy king 

Cares not for cates and junketing ; 



THE LADYE CHACE. 33 

And we who many years together 

Have lived through holy Dunstan's Lent, 
And shared through bright and stormy 
weather, 
Penance with boisterous merriment, 
Need not, for ceremonies, now 
Waste the dull time in words, I trow, 
^larry ! I like not forest cheer, 
Nor have I mind to tarry here. 
Doubtless, at any time, thy board 
Is worthy of its lavish lord. 
And if so far, 'twere, surely, well 
Sooner to leave this dismal dell. 
Come, by the Rood ! at once we'll go. 
And, good my lord, our journey show ; 
For 'neath thy towers this night we rest. 
And England shall be Harewood's guest ! " 

XVIII. 

Haughty he smiled and grasped his rein, 
And stroked his courser's arching mane. 
But Athwold, ill his fears dissembling. 
Was yet a courtier in his trembling. 
Proudly he turned, and wheeled his steed. 
Still pausing while he seemed to lead ; 



34 THH LADYE CHACE. 

For well he knew the royal mood 
And will, unwont to be withstood ; 
And more — he marked the ready band 
Round gathering, at the king's command ; 
And right he read, sore vext were they, 
The while they marvelled at his stay. 
Then "Welcome !" cried he "thanes and 

thralls, 
My liege, thrice welcome to my halls ! 
'Twas but to see how large a boon 
Thou could'st bestow, when I, of noon, 
And scorching sun, and weary way, 
Spoke, seeriiing to desire delay. 
Right glad am I to find thy will 
By such fond words unaltered still ; 
But, by thy leave, I'll hie before, 
While thou more slowly journey 'st o'er. 
I would that all my serfs might wait, 
When thou alightest at my gate ; 
And, by thy grace, will go prepare 
All things for thine arrival there." 
" Thanks, noble Athwold, thou shalt go," 
Said Edgar, ' ' as thou wilt — but show 
For us, who loiter here, our way, 
Lest these dark woods should lead astray." 



THE LADYE CHACE. 35 

*' The way," quoth Athwold, "is in sight; 
Ye cannot fail to go aright : 
Short space will bring thee to a steep 
That shows, though far, my castle-keep, 
And Harewood's halls, too mean to be, 
Ev'n for a night, a home for thee." 

XIX. 

A graceful bow he gave the king ; 

Received a nod for answering, 

And spuiTcd his horse; his squires he stayed, 

Then vanished in the thicket's shade. 

But still his courser's tramping told 

How swift he cleared the wood and wold ; 

And, list'ning, as the sounds, anon. 

Grew faint and fainter and were gone, 

The king, in reverie, sat still, 

Nor loosed the tight-drawn rein, until 

He heard no more the clatt'ring hoof. 

Lost in the distance far aloof. 

Then turned he moody round, and bade 

His train move on ; but slow, and sad. 

And thoughtfully, he. led the way 

Toward the old castle's portals gray. 



36 THE LADYE CHACE. 

XX. 

But let the minstrel string play on, 
Though Athwold, Edgar, all are gone. 
Not all — for lo ! with aught but tears, 
Young Alban from the wood appears ; 
And forth he rides, and up the mound 
Spurs swift, till gained the vantage-ground. 
And there, half-hid, afar he sees 
The royal train, amid the trees, 
Slow on their route ; and — " Well-a-day ! 
They do uot mark that I'm away ! 
I'll to my cot ! The tale was good 
I told them, by the Holy Rood ! 
And Edgar, o'er his fate and mine, 
Goes mad to quaff the traitoi^'s wine, 
To feast with foes — or well, I fear. 
To cheat me of my vengeance dear. 
Poor Athwold ! scarce his wnle I blame : 
Did ever knave a smoother frame ! 
I bore it well till truce he broke 
And to the king of Marian spoke ; 
Then truce was o'er ; as soon as said, 
The ire of Alban vowed him dead. 
Marry ! the villain to the dust ! 
He pledged my love to Edgar's lust ! 



THE LADYE CHACE. 37 

And, by the blessed Cross, he dies, 
Though toward his hold so swift he flies. 
Poor fool ! he was full sore beset ; 
But honour claims its vengeance yet. 
He jested of my sweet young bride : 
Athwold, this night, thee woe betide ! " 

XXI. 

He turned and through the wood he dashed, 
And deep his spur his courser gashed, 
Till, at a cot that seemed a hold 
For holy hermit, made of old. 
He stopped, and sudden from his steed 
Bounded to meet a fay indeed, 
A lovely sprite — that, to his arms 
Flings from the doorway, in her charms. 
And now is clasped by her young lover, 
Who bends the trembling phantom over. 
With many a kiss on lips whose breath 
And ruby hue show naught of death. 
A lovely ghost indeed, that, kneeling 
On the green sward, hath human feeling 
And woman's bloom ! For see her neck 
Suffused, beneath the braids that deck 



38 THE LADYE CHACE. 

And twine about that breast of love, 
Which Alban bends so proud above. 
Oh, faithless he ! and can it be 

That he so soon should love another? 
Or do I but a sister see, 

x\nd is he then that maiden's brother ? 
Or can this be his muse, in sooth ? 
Or is it very ghost in truth ? 
Oh, but that spirits walk by night 

And are not in the daylight seen, 
Who that might look on such a sight 

But saith, '"Tis Marian's self, I ween! " 

XXII. 

The " forester " — her father comes ! 

Nay, not a forester he seems, 
For still a minstrel rhyme he hums. 

And, though he waketh, walks in dreams. 
And Alban, thou, in sooth to tell, 
Hast played thy rogue-romancing well ; 
For not alone the king believed, 
But Athwold, by thy wit deceived. 
Nor dreamed they in a tale so fair, 
Triumphed the fabling minstrel there. 



THE I.ADYE CHACE. 39 

"A forester ! " and can it be, 
This holy harper, then, is he ? 
"A forester, in outlaw's den ! " 
'Twas Athwold that was fabling then. 
Though little did he reck the while. 
The minstrel of old Harewood's pile. 
Old Ethred, who so oft for him 
Had waked his living lyre, 
To show, though now his eye was dim, 

His heart still glowed with fire ; 
That he himself was Marian's sire, 
And, hidden in that dark old wood, 

Beside the holy runnel bright, 
Had i-eai'ed to blooming womanhood 

That child of loveliness and light. 

xxin. 

'Twas even so : Old Ethred's care 
Had hid his only treasure there. 
To bless his poet sight, though dim, 
With thoughts of holy cherubim, 
And ever to his minstrel string 
Notes worthy cherubim to bring. 
And often, by his trellis'd door, 
His minstrel notes were wont to pour, 



40 THE LADYE CHACE. 

When, 'scaped the castle by the feint 
Of penance hour, the rig'rous saint 
Turned not to sighs and torturing whip. 
But, with a kiss for ]\Iarian's lip, 
Was wont to court her praise, while he 
Called up his warm old minsti-elsy, 
And to the breeze, and birds, and hills, 
Gave out his soul-controlling trills. 
You would have thought — to see them 

there 
At morning, 'mid the greenwood fair. 
Beneath an arbour's wreathing twines 
Of roses and sweet jessamines. 
Where, peering o'er the starry flower, 
An ivied cross o'ertopped the bower, — - 
That he, with harp and locks so white. 
Was, in the woi-ld of heavenly light, 

That rapturous seer whose lip and lyre 

Were lit of old by altar-fire ; 

While she, who, bending o'er her sire. 
Smiled as she sung, and, singing too. 
Inspired him with her glances blue. 
Was, in that world, some angel given 
To be the prophet's mate in heaven, 



THE LADVE CHACE. 41 

And lead him to the nook most fair 
In all the shining regions there. 

XXIV. 

So there, by all but him unseen, 

She dwelt amid the wild-wood green, 

Till Alban found her : Ethred grieved 

When first he felt himself bereaved 

Of his sole right to Marian's heart, 

By the young rogue's o'ermaslering art. 

For as a kinsman, first, he came 

And wiled her with a cousin's name ; 

Because — so Ethred said and thouglit, 

' ' Their bl ood to mingling tides was brought 

By Arthur's minstrel, Bert the Blind, 

Who married Myrtis ; " — never mind. 

Cousins they were — so let it be, 

'Tis nothing now to you or me. 

In short — a cousin is of kin 

When loves or likings once begin ; 

'Tis just the kith that's near or far 

As friendships or aversions are ; 

None but a dunce would urge its right 

To harbourage for ev'n a night ; 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



It founds no claim, it lays no yoke, 
'Tis thin as air and light as smoke, 
But, let the smoke once turn to flame, 
How tender is a cousin's name ! 

XXV. 

Ah ! yes, when cousinage is blent 

With common thought and hearts' content, 

When mind with mind, and eye with eye, 

Transforms that nothing to a tie, 

Brothers and sisters may appear 

More distant than a friend so near. 

For, to some maiden sweet as light, 

Give but young love a cousin's right. 

Who shall describe the freedom's bliss 

Her hand to clasp, her cheek to kiss ; 

As sister near — but just removed 

So far as to be more beloved ? 

The sweetest nondescript in life 

A sister — that may be a wife ! 

Such was shi^ewd Alban's creed just then, 

In spite of Dunstan's cyphering pen, 

For Mai'ian's distant kin outran 

The prelate's artificial ban. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 43 

That makes a cousin oft too nigh 
To marry, but ah ! — not to buy. 

XXVI. 

Not such was Ethred's generous view ; 
Her lover was his kindred too. 
" I have no heir," okl Ethred said, 
" And dies my line when I am dead : 
A Hne that in Pendragon's days 
To royal ears poured loyal lays, 
And lit the soul in Uther's child. 
While yet iii arms the hero smiled. 
And now that line were lost ! but see 
What Jesu's mercy sendeth me ! 
Thou, minstrel boy, shalt be mine heir, 
And wed my child ; and she may bear 

Anoiher such as thou for thine ; 
So while her Druid oak is fair 

vShall flourish England's minstrel line ! " 

XXVII. 

And such their sweet alliance then, 
Firm friends were they ; and now, again, 
With Marian met those minstrel men. 



44 THE LADYE CHACE. 

And what though one is young, one old, 
Forgathered in that sylvan hold ? 
Their souls are knit by that kind tether 
That bindeth noble minds together. 
And "Ethred," said the laughing youth, 
" They'll need thee at the hall, forsooth ! 
Lord Athwold hath a guest, to-day. 
For whom a minstrel loves to play : 

The king is come " 

" The king ? " said he ; 
* ' Then breaks the long-sealed mystery ! 
Thy promise, Alban, was ' to sing 
For me that story when the king 
Should come to Harewood ' ; well I guessed 
Ev'n then, there lurke^ within thy breast 
A laughing quibble, that he ne'er 
By Athwold would be bidden there." 

xxvni. 

Then Alban sang, in pensive strain. 
Of Ath wold's secret joy and pain ; 
Of woes that beauty weaves for man ; 
That, since the tragic tale began 



THE LADYE CHACE. 45 

Of human love, have ever sprung 
Earth's sweetest, fairest buds among : 
The brood of that old serpent sire, 
With breath and blighting eye of fire, 
That first, to spoil a v^^orld for, aye, 
And wrest its dearest bliss away, 
Came, long agone, to Eden's bowers, 
He Beauty's bane, but beauty ours ! 

XXIX. 

Oft, as her lover told the tale. 

The tear in Marian's eye would spring ; 
But then the poet of the Dale 

Would wake for her a merry string. 
And still old Ethred, all amazed. 
As one who hears of magic, gazed, 
And found himself, as 'twere a trance. 
Enfolded in a dark romance 
Now first unveiled ; but when 'twas known, 
He added marvels of his own, 
And paired the parts — for Alban sung 
The story taught by Athwold's tongue. 
With much concealed that Ethred knew. 
Though now the whole he first could view. 



46 THE LADVE CHACE. 

XXX. 

Their harps were silent long agone, 

And they themselves were earlier dust ; 
And in their graves they're sleeping on 

Unmarked by chisell'd urn or bust ; 
And Marian's self is sleeping too, 
There where her virgin beauty grew. 
But still the poet soul survives, 
And still unquench'd it burns and lives, 
And there shall flourish aye unbroke, 
While thrives old England's Druid oak. 
And gone for aye those minstrel days, 
To them the bard his tribute pays, 
Ev'n while he loiters, in the song 
That, chance, should-bear him brisk along ; 
The story of that hapless peer. 

Which then they told in measured chime : 
Which now I sing, though not, I fear. 

In such sweet verse, or flowing rhyme, 
As then they sang to beauty's ear, 

Those poets of the minstrel time. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 47 

FYTTE II. 
ELFREDA. 



I. 

No star but beauty's phantom ray- 
That lures, not leads, to light his way 
A fearful path he treads, in truth, 
Who walks the flowery maze of youth : 
And strange as faery is the tale 
Of him whose brighter stars prevail, 
Who turns, his summer journey through. 
In dreams to tread the way anew, 
Nor sees, in all the past so fair. 
One error that he need repair. 

II. 

'Twas so that Alban's song began ; 
And thus chimed in the elder man : 
"In vain may old Experience sage 
Denounce the sentence stern of age : 
The boy that sits his saws to hear 
May, chance, the silvery beard revere, 



48 THE LA DYE CHACE. 

And, awed, may mark the wrinkled face 
That adds to words a grave grimace ; 
But still he smiles within, and deems 
Such maxims are but foolish dreams, 
Which, like the hoary locks of him 
Whose eye and lamp of life grow dim, 
Are meet adorning to the brow 
That waits a crown of glory now. 
But ill would suit his amorous wile 
Whose Fairyland is beauty's smile." 

III. 

'Twas therefore Wisdom's art, of yore. 

To touch the heart by Fancy's lore 

And fold this moral in a lay — 

" How hard is the transgressor's way." 

Learn, then, from Alban's song —not mine, 

I but translate his Saxon line — 

How it befell that Edgar's word 

To Athwold seemed a serpent stirred. 

Why falter'd he like lips that lie ? 

Why did he shrink from Edgar's eye. 

Or why when, from that presence pass'd, 

He found him in the wood at last. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 49 

Burned on his cheek the smothered glow ? 
Why turned he round and threatened so ? 
Why spurred so oft his jaded steed ? 
Why rode so raging ? He had need : 
For right he recked, the seal was broke : 
The secret read, and all outspoke 
The traitor tale engraved within, 
Like some unsmothered spark of sin, 
That smoulders long and dark below. 
But bursts to blaze or e'er we know. 

IV. 

For this, so swift his courser strode. 
Spurred o'er the old familiar road, 
And cursed by lips more wont to say 
With pride, " God bless thee, noble grey 
My'halidom ! thy like, I ween. 
Chased never over England's green ! '^ 
Poor Athwold had been sorely proved ! 
And, "fie on hearts that never loved ! 
Hearts that have felt a charmer's power, 
Know well the frenzy of the hour 
When first the favouring smiles are won 
Of the dear eyes we doat upon. 



50 THE LADVE CHACE. 

Such hour the hapless peer had known, 
And his warm breast had waged alone 
Passion's fierce war with Duty's thrall, 
Nor passed the fiery ordeal. 

So his was Treason ; but the name 
Deserves, at least, some milder blame, 
If Truth and Fealty are tame, 
And all unwavering can endure — " 
So Alban sung — "a lady's lure. 
Unmoved, unyielding, undecoyed : 
Happy the man if undestroyed ! " 

V. 

Sweet Marian chode. With roguish feint. 
The minstrel argued his complaint, 
And by the Talmud's legends drear 
Enforced the railing on her ear : 
" Oh, Adam from his Eden fell 
For loving woman's love too well ; 
The wisest of his sons denied 
His God, to gain a heathen bride ; 
And angels, as old Rabbins shew. 
Left their pure homes to stoop below. 
And lost their seraph-mates above. 
Allured b)'^ mortal beauty's love. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 51 

And tempted, from their high estate, 
To Satan's fall and final fate 
By young Earth's daughters, and the face 
Of woman's more than angel grace." 

VI. 

Hence 'tis the vulgar artist's trade 
To rail at woman, wife and maid. 
To taunt her with the woes of men, 

To boast his freedoms of espial, 
And tell how oft and how and when 

He made the bold, presuming trial. 
And found the tempt'ress — such, that he 
Was fit her feeble fool to be. 
Such bards have seen no vestal light 
Ev'n in the Sibyl's glances bright ; 
And still the infidels are found 
Who rail at Virtue's holiest ground ; 
Who liken beauty to a star 
That shines in heaven, but omens war ; 
Or to that lamp that blazes bright 
To mire the youth that trusts its light, 
When o'er his all unguarded way 
It throws its soft, delusive ray. 



52 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Miranda's innocence to scorn, 
What Sycorax such sons hath borne ? 
Mine be the part — should I disclose 
No history of a thornless rose, 
To show its thorns are of the tree 
That boasts the flower's support to be ; 
If wrong in woman's heart we scan, 
'Tis somehow from the wrong of man. 

VII. 

But let me Alban's song regain 
Nor interpose my prosy strain. 
Gazing on Marian's charms the while 
'Twas thus once more he won her smile : 
"Daughter of Eve, thy heart and mind 
Enfold the marvel of mankind ; 
And thine the mould that mocks his skill 
Who shapes the marble at his will, 
Or his whose pencil's magic hues 
Might paint an iris in the dews. 
Nor can the mightier bard essay 
Thine inmost nature to portray, 
When first to song, for thy sweet sake, 
His own amazing powers awake. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 53 

Yet truest bards, in noblest lays, 
Have sung of womanhood the praise, 
How — as from Psyche's radiant wings, 
The maid her sweet enchantment flings, 
Wafting before the poet's eye, 
In his first love and ecstacy. 
And 'tis my creed — I would not live 
Without the bliss such faith can give. 
In woman's goodness to believe : 
So many Marys for one Eve ! 
Let such complain as never knew 
The chaste, the steadfast and the ti-ue ; 
Sweet Marian, hear — I fancied ne'er, 
The charmer frail, the falsely fair. " 

VIII. 

High, on its tor the castle stood. 
The crags above — beneath, the wood. 
Where Ordgar dwelt, by men abhorr'd, 
Of Devon's wilds the cheerless lord. 
And claiming o'er its seas domain, 
The pirate's right to rob and reign. 
There first a birdling breathed unblest 
A dovelet in a vulture's nest. 



54 THE LADYE CHACE. 

The motlier-wing away it flew : 
No mother's care the nestling knew, 
'Twas so the young Elfreda grew. 
Nor, as her ripening beauty shone, 
On Ordgar's sight, a bud half-blown, 
Melted the soul of that stern sire. 
Too proudly selfish to admire. 
Still, in that lone and dreaiy wild 
He made a pris'ner of his child ; 
And save the monk that went and came. 
Her grim old aunt, a stately dame. 
And maids that sighed but never laughed. 
And one that taught the broid'rer's craft, 
Little of human life she learned, 
Though oft her soul within her burned, 
She knew not why. Her father knew. 
And gazing on her eye so blue, 
. He mutter'd oft — " I would mine heir 
Were only not a flower so fair." 
And so he watched and held her there. 
In dread of Edgar's lawless flame 
That blasted wheresoe'er it came. 
" Not born for consort of my king. 
She shall not be a baser thing : " 



THE LADYE CHACE. 55 

So chafed he, fierce, and — such his rage — 
Locked fast the ringdove in his cage. 

IX. 

Not often, to the meads below, 
Elfreda with her hawk might go, 
Where all the sweets of flowery June 
Breathed from the woods, 'neath sun and 

moon, 
Or where the fox-glove, thick as heath. 
Empurpled all the dells beneath. 
Like that Levantine bird that flies 

In palmy islands far away. 
And finds no mate in those bright skies, 

For there alone she lives her day, 
In air that never, till she dies. 

Is fanned by fellow-wing, they say, 
Elfreda dwelt, and knew no friend. 
But one the poet's art that kenn'd. 
Save when at eve her voice would blend 
With that old minstrel's harp, who sung 
For many a year, those halls among — 
She lived as if the desert flower, 
That blooms and breathes at morning hour. 



56 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Not only shed its sweets in vain, 
And gave its odours to the waste, 

But vexed its little soul with ^ain, 
And Jiuezv its fleeting bloom misplaced ; 
As if the pearl, that in the deep 
Its hermit watch long years doth keep, 

Were loth to light its elfin cell 
With its own lustre, still repining 

In loneliness unseen to dwell. 
And lavish there its peerless shining. 
Where not the sea-maids' selves might 

know 
How wonderful the lustrous glow, 
Encased within so rough a cover. 
Tossed by the tumbling surges over. 
But beauty like the light must beam, 

And ever v/ill some wanderer's eye 
Be dazzled by a roving gleam, 

A gleam he never meant to spy, 
That comes as evening meteors stream 

Across the summer's cloudless sky ; 
Yet more might like the glow-worm seem, 

That shuns, not seeks, the passer-by. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 57 

X. 

Ev'n so, when once with horse and hound 
The sport ^vept by the castle's bound, 
Sweet she looked forth from her high bower, 
In beauty like that modest flower 
That, from beneath the flaunting rose. 

Peered out, on a high festival, 
To see what queen of flowers they chose. 

And was, herself, made queen of all. 
She saw, and she was seen by one 
Long wont such shapes to doat upon : 
And Alban's minstrel-harp soon sung 

The charms he triumphed to discover, 
And her sweet name in music rung. 

Which he could praise, though not her 
lover ; 
For ever was the minstrel's lyre 
Devote to light the fancy's fire. 
And she, so fair, but claimed his art, 
While Marian held both harp and heart. 
Else — tho' Love's star outshines the Sun, 
Elfreda soul and voice had won ; 
And ne'er to Edgar had he told 
Of beauty hid in that dark hold, 



58 THE LADYE CHACE. 

But for hhnself, with high empi-ise, 
Had woo'd her from her lonely bower, 

Or for one glance of her bright eyes, 

Had scaled, by night, her lighted tower. 

XI. 

'Twas heard anon, lier charms might lure 

Peri or ouphe or sylphid pure ; 

And Edgar, from the minstrel's tongue 

Had caught love's madness with the tale; 
And oft he heard the story sung, 

By voices viewless as the gale. 
Elfreda was a fairy's name, 

And fairies seemed to love it well ; 
For oft, at witching eve, it came 

O'er his soothed senses like a spell. 
He was a visionary king, 

And now he loved on Rumor's word. 
His own divine imagining, 

A phantom bright as Eden's bird. 

xn. 

Presumptuous lover ! — he had spurned. 
When first with boyish flames he burned, 



THE LADYE CHACE. 59 

The hallowed cloister's sacred pale, 
And from the vestal torn the veil. 
" What is a monkish wall ?" he said ; 
''And what these niches of the dead ? 
Alcuin himself might scorn these aisles — 
For there the pictured Virgin smiles." 
He trembled, though resolved to dare, 
Beneath a scutcheoned window's glare, 
Where kings were imaged — frail as glass ; 
And — " for the love of this sweet lass," 
He muttered — "Dunstan I defy ; 
Sweet Edith, I for thee would die." 

XHI. 
Here let old Ethred interpose 
His monody of Edith's woes. 
For well the fair recluse he knew. 
And saw her sullied splendors too. 

INTERLUDE. 
t 

I. 

' ' So Edith, from the altar torn, 

Where white-robed sisters sing and mourn. 



6o THE LADYE CHACE. 

Left chant and litany awhile, 
To worship only Edgar's smile. 
Nor grieved she for the price she paid, 
Rapt from the cell a trembling maid, 
No moi'e in weeds to kneel and sing, 
But walk the idol of a king, 
Till all too soon the spell was o'er ! 
Of bloom bereft, she charms no more ; 
Forsaken, friendless, hopeless now, 
Shame's burning brand upon her brow. 
In bitter grief she weeps alone. 
O'er young content and virtue flown ; 
And sighs, despairing, for the rest 
Forever fled her thorny breast. 
Which once in holy joy she felt, 
Or e'er to aught but God she knelt : 
Or e'er, for days of guilty mirth, 
She traced her footsteps back to earth, 
And offered, at a mortal's shrine, 
The incense lit for loves divine, " 



"And Edith is an added spoil 
To trophies which but seem to foil 



THE LADYE CHACE. 6l 

The lustre of his vaunted art 
O'er woman's too confiding heart. 
So, many a gem we thought a treasure, 
And many a flower that gave us pleasure. 
Is worthless all, when others dearer — 
Sweeter in scent, in brilliance clearer, 
Turn from our first delights our eyes. 
And dazzle us — a brighter prize. 
And man is fickle in his loves 
As that gay bee that idly roves 
Through Iran's meads, on gauzy wing, 
To sip its sweets and leave his sting. 
Cruel the imp, though gaily drest, 
Crimson his coat and gold his crest. 
In form and hue and all outside 
The honey-maker, glorified, 
But, all within, the spider's guile. 
His venom and his web, the while. 

3- 
"With fatal kiss the rover goes 
Where opes its bud the fragrant rose ; 
Then to the lurking violet flies, 
Tarries and tastes and onward hies ; 



62 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Till, stooping from his airy flight, 
The lily's bosom, pure as white, 
Like woman's too confiding breast, 
Welcomes the spoiler of its rest. 
The flower, beneath his treach'rous wings, 
Trembles and bows, yet clasps and clings, 
As fair Titania's pearly arms 
Might fold her Oberon in charms. 
Forewarned, let innocence bewai^e. 
Nor trust the wily suitor's snare ; 
For ah, how soon, its nectar rifled, 
He leaves the flower with which he trifled, 
Courting new pleasures, day by day, 
And wafts on wicked wing away. 
Go, seek his toy, the garden's pride. 
And see how soon the lily died : 
'Neath the hot noon, her glory fled, 
Ho^^^ lowly drooped her graceful head. 
Or, drenched with tears of even's birth, 
How fell her spotless bloom to eartli." 

XIV. 

So Edgar soon his Edith spurns, 
And faithless to Elfreda turns : 



THE LADYE CHACE. 63 

Unseen as yet, yet prized the more, 

Like houiis of Arabian lore, 

Adored, as ever the unreal — 

He loves her lovelier ideal. 

But she is sprung of noble line : 
Her father is a mighty earl ; 

And not a monarch's loose design 
Can tear from him his darling girl. 

Elfreda may be his alone 

Purchased with half fair England's throne : 

"Then who more fit," said he, "to reign 
Than Ordgar's daughter, Edgar's queen ? 

In sooth he is the noblest thane 

That hunts in England's forest green : 
And, by the Rood ! I'll make her bride 
Ere ring the bells for Christmas-tide : 
And Athwold shall be sent to sue, 
If monarchs must like monarchs woo : 
For who so faithfully can bear 
The embassage of England there ? " 
So, Athwold, smiling doth depart — 
He fears not for his faithful heart. 
Nor dreams how hard the task will prove 
To feel and speak another's love. 



64 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Nor, to the monarch's heart of flame 
Aught of mistrust or question came, 
For Edgar knew not prince or peer, 
Bishop or baron, far or near, 
So wise in counsel, brave in fight. 
So true in absence, sm-e in sight, 
In proof so strong, so unbeguiled. 
As Athwold — till Elfreda smiled ! 

XV. 

The tale is of those Saxon times 
Whose chi'onicles are red with crimes ; 
Of that fierce age, depraved and base, 
That sullied Christendom's fair face, 
And, filling up its thousandth year. 
Threatened the Judgment, drawing near. 
Dead was imperial Charlemain ; 
His weakling sons, that could not reign, 
Their spendthrift parts had played with fate. 
And lost fair Europe's proud estate. 
While Nicholas made the game his own, 
And won by dicer's arts their throne. 
Then the red seals began to ope 
That to the world disclosed a Pope, 



THE LADYE CHACE. 65 

In England, Alfred's days were gone, 
And deep penumbral dark came on, 
Ere fell, on her, the black eclipse, 
That myst'ry of th' Apocalypse, 
Which o'er the churches,^ far and wide. 
Throned a Grand Lama, deified. 
Yet was the Church of England free 
And pure, as in such days might be. 
The Christ alone her Lord and Rock ; 
Her wedded priests still fed the flock ; 
None to lay lips denied the Cup, 
Nor was the Housel lifted up ; 
No goddess was the Blessed Maid,- 
Nor, save to God, was worship paid ; 
The Creed was undefiied and whole ; 
No forced Confession wronged the soul, 
Nor yet was Rome's chief-pastor more 
Than Patriarch-primate, as of- yore. 

XVI. 

But, times were near, when locusts came, 
Legion their form and fearful name ; 
And soon, in Albion's fleecy fold, 
The wolf of Tiber tithed and tolled. 

5 



66 THE LADYE CHACE. 

In Edgar's day, 'twas Dunstan brought 
The monkish horde such change that 

wrought, 
Intriguing, scheming, scowling, smihng. 
All conquering and all defiling. 
Till he that wore St. Bennet's gown, 
Master'd the monarch as the clown. 
The village-priest he came to ban. 
Woman to wile, to war with man. 
And chaplains swarmed in court and hall. 
Who all things made themselves to all. 
With dames and princes naught austere, 
All complaisance to Beauty's ear ; 
Italian monks who brought from Rome 
Tales to corrupt each English home, 
Of Theodora's shameless trade. 
And of the popes Marozia made. 

XVII. 

Ye hills that stretch from earth away, 
Where human feet infrequent stray. 
How oft your hoary heights have been 
Man's refuge from his fellow's sin. 
But not, on yonder crag, the light 
That gleams so oft at dead of night, 



THE LADYE CHACE. 67 

And, to the fisher's skiff afar, 

Shines forth, a homeward guiding star, 

Betrays the wakeful saint and stern 

Whose tapers on the altar burn ; 

For there a gentle lady sighs, 

And wakes, to feast her sparkling eyes 

On Taliessin's charming page, 

Or reads of Arthur's golden age 

In rapt Aneurin's pictured lines, 

Whose sweet romance her soul entwines, 

With marvels of fair fancy's flight, 

Fairy and dame and noble knight. 

Why should a maid such follies learn, 

Why o'er such tales her taper burn ? 

XVIII. 

Robed in the rich embroidered vest 
Which oft the Saxon beauty dressed. 
Her arms are bare from their smooth 

bending, 
With pearl-drops from the short sleeves 

pending. 
The bright enamel softly blending 
With purer flesh— like snow unstained, 
Rounded and dimpled and blue-veined. 



68 THE LADYE CHACE. 

And as she readetli, her sweet breath 
Moves, its transparent la-wn beneath, 
The bosom where her heart reposes ; 
Xor more than modest charms discloses 
When part the daint}- folds asunder, 
Clasped by the belt that girds them under, 
A ie weird and an envied zone ; 
Not envied for its gems alone. 

XIX. 

.■>Trce: bells she hears : adown the dale 

A village steeple gTace<i the vale. 

And now the chimes, for midnight prayer 

Come faintly on the stilly air. 

The lady hears, and kneels to pray : 

At least — ^her compline she would say. 

Her white hands grasp her portforie ; 

Her cross depending to her knee — 

— It glittered once by Alcuin's cassock, 

Shines brightly on her purple hassock. 

And all the luxury of prayer — 

Its outward grace and form are there, 

Xor is it for frail man to say. 

The maiden only seemed to pray. 



THE LADVE CHACE. 69 

XX. 

'Twas Alban's mood — such gibes to throw 
As made sweet Marian's blushes glow, 
But Ethred would not brook his child 
Should waver, in her thought so mild, 
Or, of his lady's faith devout, 
And pious prayers conceive a doubt. 
Nay, Alban — "let a sacred strain 
Of mine, reprove suspicions vain. 
Once I surprised a white-robed maid, 
Kneeling apart, yet self-betrayed. 
Where, though I lent nor eye nor ear. 
And quickly turned, lest I should hear, 
T seemed as fair a sight to see 
As Gabriel erst, in Galilee, 
When the blest Maid and undefiled. 
Gained promise of her holy child ; 
When for all virgin souls, like hers, 
That holy Infant's worshippers, 
Redemption's song she first outpoured 
— My soul doth magnify the Lord. 
And be it in the minster gray, 
Where pious throngs keep holy day. 



70 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Or at the altar's hallow'd pale 

Where kneels the bride, beneath her veil, 

Or in the ploset, still and lone, 

Where the sweet rite is all her own, 
A lady bending her fair knee, 
It is a goodly sight to see, 
So pure the prayer of purity." 

XXI. 

Another day — another hour : 
It finds Elfreda in her bower 
Watching the blue loft's earliest star 

Nor dreaming, in the western sky, 
That glittering gem seems fainter far 

Than the large lustre of her eye. 
But would ye know what she is thinking 
'Neath the soft twilight's starry blinking? 
She longs for sympathy — to greet 

Some loving life, some cheering tone ; 
And sighs — " How dull this castle's seat. 

And my sad youth how drear and lone. 
My foolish heart goes out to meet 

Some kindred throb, some thrill un- 
known, 



THE LADYE CHACE. 7I 

To answer with responsive beat ; 
Like ivy o'er the gray wall grown, 
Springing its bounds, yet meeting there 
No prop to stay its tendrils fair, 
And swinging in the sullen breeze, 
Loose as an idler's reveries. 
Too soon I seem the foliage sere, 
That dies before the mellowed year. 
In the dull hues of hope deceived, 
Or fading visi'ons, fancy-weaved. " 

XXIL 

Our exile from a faithful heart 

That feels afar a kindred smart, 

Is like the durance of the bird 

That first her shining plumage stirred 

In Indian climes, 'mid flowering wreaths. 

Where every breeze with incense breathes, 

And where, in spicy brakes, they caught 

her — 
That now hath crossed the stormy water. 
In our cold skies condemned to shiver, 
And sing glad notes, though caged forever : 
But fair Elfreda's was the woe 

Of birds that, natives of their prison. 



72 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Are sad of sight and song, although 

In the pure air they ne'er have risen. 
They know not what it is they love, 
They know not they would soar above ; 
And, gazing on the calm, clear air, 
Scarce dream they long to waft them there ; 
Vet is an impulse in their wings ; 

Their growing plumes were made for 
flying ; 
And so Elfreda's spirit springs 

And spurns the dungeon where 'tis lying,. 
While in her soul the young emotion, 

The thought she knows not how to name, 
Like wings that hover over ocean, 

Nor day nor night can tire or tame. 
There is a prompting in her breast 
That would o'erspring the parent nest — 
A secret in her bosom lurking — 
Mysterious nature ! thine own working. 

XXIII. 

With her own thoughts thus wont to muse, 
And watch the fading daylight's hues, 
The lady lingers, till the moon 
Is shining 'mid the stars aboon, 



THE LADYE CHACE. 73 

With showery beams, like mists, that pour 
A silver light on sea and shore. 
It mocks the sorrow in her heart. 

She yearns for one to share that sorrow : 
Yet, in her soul, so void of art, 

She knows not whither she would borrow 
The fond reply, the answering smile, 
That might her loneliness beguile. 
Then to her lofty cell again. 
Her harp to touch, in plaintive strain ; 
To sing a song her chaplain taught, 
— From Italy 'twas newly brought, 
And breathed of that fair captive land, 
A spirit monks might understand. 

ROUNDELAY. 

I. 

" The breeze it is that opes the rose ; 

The breeze it is that doth destroy : 
Love is the source of all our woes. 

But first the fount of all our joy. 
The life of love, like summer's day, 

Is always beautiful at morn ; 



74 THE LADYE CHACE. 

But ever, clouds obscure the ray 

Of early love, so fairly born. 
Anon the shadows roll away, 

And then, anew, outbreaks the shining, 
And shineth on its bright'ning day. 

Most beautiful at life's declining ! 
But ah ! not oft of virgin breast, 
The earliest, purest love, is blest : 
Too oft the victim at the altar 
Hath found her voice, in tremblings, falter, 
As, even while she lisped her vows, 
She loved another than her spouse. 
For sweet first love, it triumphs never, 
Yet tints and tinges life, forever : 
A clouded hue, that lurks below, 
Howe'er they garnish o'er the woe, 
Or weave a tricksy wreath above 
The faded woof of blighted love. " 

2. 

"And yet the dawn of love is bliss — 
A bliss that surely turns to sorrow — 

And he that gives his first love-kiss. 

May kiss those lips no more to-morroM'. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 75 

And thou, who seemest Love's sweet twin, 

Unless indeed thou art his daughter, 
If now thy dreams of love begin, 

Like rosy light on some clear water. 
Deem not that he who charms thee first, 

Though thou hast charmed, will e'er be 
thine ! 
For ever what is earliest nurst, 

Though brightest, fairest in its shine, 

Is fleet to perish as the pine, 
That quick consumes in od'rous blaze ; 
While that which liveth years and days. 

Like vestal light, undimm'd, undying — 
Is after-lighted — when decays 

The fire that was the censer's trying. 
Then, as with Persian scents perfumed. 

Or rooms with burning sandal brighten'd, 
How steady is life's way illumed — 

How all its gloom and dark enlighten'd ! 
The Lord that loveth all indeed, 
Doth never break the bruised reed, 
But lulleth aye the gale to peace, 
When Spring hath shorn the lambkin's 
fleece : 



76 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Yet that pure flame to mortals given, 
That seemeth all earth shares with heaven, 
Is ne'er for us without its tears ; 
And even like our infant years — 
So bright, but oft so cloudy turning, 
While we, to learn to live are learning — 
Ev'n such — ah, not like theirs above — 
The early dawn of human love ! " 

XXIV. 

When morning o'er her eyelids broke. 

To such a dawn Elfreda woke : 

The dawn of love — for Athwold came 

As speeds the May-fly to the flame, 

Herself in youth's delightful bloom. 

The light alluring to consume. 

Yes, Athwold came — ye know the rest. 

Young gallants, that have manly breast : 

Why should I say — he came, he saw. 

Was conquer'd! Change stern Nature's law, 

That will not brook an acted part. 

Or bear a mask before the heart, 

And we may blame him, that he knelt, 

The maid to woo, her sire to melt. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 77 

And won her hand — no, not to bring 
His lovely conquest to the King ; 
But, in the fever of his flame, 
Her beauty, as his own, to claim ! 
'Twas rash, but who, that loves, would 
blame ? 

XXV. 

And she was proud betroth'd to be — 
For who so brave a knight as he. 
Or where the noble in the land, 
Of lordlier heart, of bolder hand ? 
Her lord was only less than King ! 
And sure, to wear his plighted ring, 
To be his watch-word in the fight. 
And, shielded by his falchion bright. 
Upon his manly arm to lean — 
Was this not — next to being Queen ? 
She never dreamed she might have been 
Her sov'reign's bride — confiding fair ! 
Yet seemed some whisper in the air 
Of fiend malign the thought that stirr'd, 
And breathed that first ill-omened word. 
Happy she seemed : not yet she knew 
Passions within that shrunk from view ; 



78 THE LADYE CHACE. 

And when her lover said good bye, 

You should have seen her w^atchful eye 

Follow her Athwold, as his steed 

Bore him afar, with slackened speed — 

Forgetful of herself — and dim 

With teai's the sight that followed him ! 

She started — as a foot fell near ; 

'Twas her stern sire's; she shrunk with fear. 

Sullen he passed and saw her never. 

As phantom-like she trembled there, 
He like hoar winter, chill'd forever, 

She like the May's sweet-breathing air. 

XXVI. 

Athwold had gained the lady's heart ; 
But, when that moment came to part 
He woke — to what he was — and nigh 
He trembled, as he framed his lie, 
To think of Edgar's searching eye. 
Yet listlessly he met the king, 
And plained as if a trifling thing 
Had drawn him from the court aside : 
— " What ! such a maid to be thy bride I 
Forbid it all ye saints serene, 
Edgar should reign with such a queen I 



THE LADVE CHACE. 79 

Sweet Edith, lowly born — yet bore 

Of grace and stately presence more : 

But Ordgar's child ! — he makes too free, 

A robber and a pirate he, 

Aspiring on her brows to set 

More than an earldom's coronet ! 

The bird, I found, too good — tis true 

For him, in such a cage to mew. 

But, by her nurture in that hold 

A peasant's lass, and shy as cold, 

Speechless — in short, mere furniture 

Moving awry, with look demure : 

And worse than all — poor hapless creatuie, 

Her sordid sire in every feature ! 

To think of her, in Edgar's court ; 

Of dames and dowagers the sport. 

Of shining maids and courtiers young 

The jest — on every whisp'ring tongue ! " 

XXVII. 

"And so," quoth Athwold, "while I staid 
In Devon's dreary halls, the while, 

I paid no suit, nor proffer made. 
To gain, as bid, the lady's smile, 



8o THE LADYE CHACE. 

But ventured, though in duty's way, 
For once, thy will to disobey. 
I spoke of war and sport, but ne'er 
Hinted my real errand there. 
And still, my unconcern to prove, 
I talked of everything but love. 
And now return'd, a faithful spy, 
I wait my sovereign's mandate high : 
If still thou deem'st it well to woo, 

Still may thy first desires be done ; 
Right glad will I return to sue. 

And yet the maiden may be won ; 
But if thou yet wilt trust thy friend, 
Better thy courtship here should end, 
For thus thou art untrammel'd still — 
My liege, I wait thy further will. " 

XXVIII. 

The monarch praised his courtier's art- 
He dream'd not of his treach'rous part- 
But trusted his report as true 
As though himself had seen and knew. 
Anon, so strong the fable proved, 
He all forgot he e'er had loved ; 



THE I.ADYE CHACE. 8l 

Such love is easy to dispel, 

And she, in fancy lov'd so well. 

Was soon forgot. A gem desired 

Is valueless, if unadmired ; 

And charms that' oft beguiled before, 

If others scoi-n, are priz'd no more. 

But Athwold in a merry hour, 

When Edgar prais'd Elfreda's dower. 

And, o'er the bumper which he quaff'd, 

Loud at her fabled beauty laughed, 

Asked — as in sport — his leave to wed 

The treasured maid ; for wealth, he said, 

" He more desired than fleeting beauty — 

Better to him was golden booty ! 

And so, if Edgar lov'd her not, 

Himself would woo her for his own ; 
Haply she'd suit a courtier's lot. 

Though all unworthy of a throne," 
"Have her!" said Edgar, flushed with 

wine ; 
"None but an angel shall be mine ; 
But — 'twas well said — no Queen for me, 
What booty she would bring to thee ! " 
6 



82 THE LADVE CHACE. 

XXIX. 

So Athwold went and claimed his bride : 
The monarch knew not what he gave— 
Elfreda chmg to Athwold's side ; 

But he, rash man, now doubly slave, 
Was ever fearful, though he smiled, 
Like deer that hath been hunted, wild, 
And startling ever, lest' the breeze 
Should whisper his dark treacheries. 
And so, imprisoned still, he kept 
His wife, Avhere all her youth she wept ; 
Nor dai^ed at court, or banquet high, 
Display her to another's eye ; 
With miser fear and craven care. 
Hoarding his sparkling diamond there — 
Like Jew, to hide his pelf immense. 
In beggar's garb that sues for pence. 
But shall we pity more the maid. 
Allured to sorrow, love-betrayed, 
And sad as when she wept alone, 
And his, who wrong'd her of a throne — 
Or him, poor man, whose sorest fault, 
Seemed but the love to her he bore ; 



THE LADYE CHACE. ' 83 

The dupe of passion's blind assault, 

The victim of a siren shore ? 
Who for her sake his faith had broke, 

Yet durst not tell the price he paid ; 
Who fear'd each word his sovereign spoke, 

And careful every answer made ; 
Who mused in loneliness, and kept 

His thorny secret with a sigh ; 
Who dream'd of evil when he slept, 

And woke with terror in his eye. • 
His — his, alas ! the keenest woe. 

Whose festering conscience stole his rest 
Yet found its deepest, sharpest throe, 

In her reproachful eye and breast. 
Whose fatal charms had lured him so, 
To deeds that she should never know. 

To crime that must not be express'd. 

XXX. 

Not to herself, as oft she moaned 
In absence, o'er her hopes deferr'd. 

Not to herself, the countess own'd 
Passions in her deep soul that stirr'd ; 

Only she sighed — " So soon forgot? 

My husband — yet he loves me not." 



84 THE LADVE CHACE. 

Said I not well, if woman errs, 

Not oft the primal wrong is hers ? 

Of men — save minstrels and a squire, 

Elfreda knew her cruel sire, 

Her priest and Athwold — only these. 

Enough her budding life to freeze. 

And who shall say, so poor the range 

Of her sad youth — the tale is strange 

Of what the annalist portrays. 

The story of her later days ? 

What marvel if a rankling wrong. 

Estranged her from herself ere long, 

And chased afar that angel wing 

That o'er us waves in youth's sweet spring ; 

Till she — whose name might gild the page 

Of yet another Alfred's age — 

Stands dai^kling, where the royal gore 

Stains Corfe's curst gate but nay, no 

more ! 
Why lift on sin's last act the veil. 
Or turn from Ath wold's crime the tale? 

XXXI. 

Fond man ! like truant boys that stray 
Far from their homes, a sunny day. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 85 

In chase of gilded moth or fly, 

O'er hill and dale, untired, unthink- 
ing, 
And turn not back their dazzled eye, 

Till now the golden sun is sinking — 
So he, decoyed from truth and duty, 
Had followed far the wing of beauty, 
And thoughtless of the forfeit dread. 

Had seen alone the brilliant bait. 
Nor paused to think, nor turned his head, 

Till now, alas ! 'twas all too late. 
Where shall he turn? To Court he flies, 

For he can meet the sternest there ; 
But ah, those bright reproving eyes. 

That shine at home he cannot bear. 
Charming they are, but every glance 
Is keener far than foeman's lance ! 
He's robbed her of a crown, and she 
Has loved him all unconsciously. 
He has repaid that love with love 

As warm, as fervent, as her own ; 
But how shall he that fervour prove, 

Whose double wrong has wrong'd the 
throne ? 



86 THE LAin'E CHACE. 

XXXII. 

He viewed her with a colder sight, 
Who was so late his dear delight ; 
Yet not for her he wore that scowl — 
He lov'd her yet — but treason foul 
Was in his heart, and never he 
Could smile away his treachery. 
And hapless, now he felt the sting 

That an o'erburdened conscience gives 
Slave to himself, a heai-tless thing, 

Ev'n in her eyes for whom he lives ; 
Reft of the joys his crime had sought, 
And in his own dark meshes caught. 
So, ever he that feeble pi-oves, 
'Mid earth's ten thousand luring loves, 
And yields his soul, his heart beguiled, 
To pleasure, so too lightly styled. 
Must find, at length, beneath her thrall, 
His drop of honey draughts of gall. 
And learn how soon the sweetness cloys. 
Of Folly's bowl — forbidden joys. 

XXXIII. 

Seldom he comes — and soon he goes 
From her sweet arms, his sole repose. 



THE LADVE CHACE. 87 

" — 'Tis passing strange," the menials say, 
"Our lord should leave his halls, to- 
day." 
She chides him not, but gently cheers 
The parting-hour, with hopes and fears. 
His horse awaits ; — he seeks her side. 
With — "Must I leave thee, lovely bride I 
I go, but will anon return ; 

And Avhen I go again," said he, 
" Mine angel, thou shalt go, and learn 

How poor are all, compared with thee. 
Oh, would thou mightst be with me now ; 

But ah, my perils wouldst thou share?" 
She mark'd his changing cheek and brow — 

"Thou ne'er shalt know my dangers 
there ! 
Yet love me, lovely wife, for well 

My heart repays each kindly smile — 
Oh, might I but love's daring tell ! 

But no ! — remember me the while — 
I must away." A sparkling tear 

Hung on Elfreda's kindling eye : 
Forgotten were her wrongs, and dear 

As the warm tide, that, flushing high. 



88 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Glowed on her cheek, her Athwold seem'd. 

Oa his proud neck she fell ; he bent 
And kiss'd her trembling lip, and dream'd. 

One joyous moment, that he leant 
O'er one that loved him : on her breast. 

That throbbed with many an answering 
sigh, 
Dropp'd his warm tears — his nodding crest 

Could not conceal his moisten'd eye. 
Oh, it was good to see them there, 

The beauteous and the brave embrac- 
ing ! 
His snowy plumes, her golden hair — 

The tears of both past wrongs effacing. 
But love's short, painful transport o'er, 

His squires attend — he must away.. 
Fie turned him from his lofty door. 

Blest by her smile, that wooed his stay — ■ 
He went, alas ! to go no more. 

As then he went, that happy day ! 

XXXIV. 

For oh, on earth, the serpent's breath 
Hasdrugg'd each bliss with poisons fell ; 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



Each flower is but a blooming death, 

And Pleasure's sweets still scent of hell. 
So Athwold found, but not at first, 

For when at Edgar's feet he knelt, 

The monarch stifled what he felt. 
And calmed the storm so soon to burst. 
But all was known : some bird in air, 

Or Rumor's black and omened wing, 
Had borne the dreadful secret there. 

And woke to rage the injured king. 
All seem'd as peaceful as before ; 
But when some jovial days were o'er, 
Edgar led forth his merry court 
Afar, to join in forest spoit ; 
And soon the hunting of the morn 

Was ordered by the wily king; 
For this we heard the echoing horn, 

And saw come forth that joyous ring. 

XXXV. 

And oh, for this did Athwold turn 
So deadly pale ; for this did burn 
So hot within ; for this he fled 
So^frantic from the rout he led : — 



QO THE LADYE CHACE. 

And 'twas for this that Edgar, reft 
Of his strong stay, and lonely left, 
Paused one blest moment, to forget 
His bitter wrongs, and linger yet 
On all of honour that he knew 
Tn Athwold, while he yet was true; 
Perchance to drop one generous tear, 
O'er England's brave but faithless peer. 



THE LADVE CHACE. 9I 

FYTTE III. 
ATHWOLD. 

I. 

lie who hath stood upon the steep 
Above Parthenope's l)lue deep, 
Recalls the Siren's voice and strain, 
Nor deems that poet's warning vain 
Whose tomb, with myitles girt and bays, 
The modest height afar displays. 
Still from the grot, that opes anear, 
His echoes reach the list'ning ear, 
And if I rightly catch the song, 
'Tis thus his moral they prolong : 
Oh, it is easy to descend 
The flowery paths in woe that end. 
And, lured by Folly's frolic ray, 
To leave the light of Virtue's day, 
And down the swollen stream to glide 
Of Pleasure's smooth deceitful tide, 
Till, far from Reason's sterner bound. 
Grief and Remorse come frantic round. 



92 THE LADYE CHACE. 

But all ! with ruined peace and rest, 

With wearied hope and sighing breast, 

Back, back again that steep to climb 

That falls from Wisdom's height sublime, 

Or up the troubled tide to stem 

That rolls o'er Honour's buried gem, 

Is harder far than poet's lay 

In cheerless proverbs might convey, 

If but a fable's close may tell 

What prophet ne'er might preach so well. 

II. 

Fast from the monarch's wearied train 

Lord Athwold's courser flew, 
Spurred swiftly over heath and plain. 

And swift the forest through. 
With muttered oath, and vengeful vow. 

He dashed the copse amid; 
Yet breathed not forth his ire, I trow. 
Nor vented half his rage, till now 

Far in the wild-wood hid. 
Then fierce outspoke his wrath, and loud 
To the vexed winds revenge he vowed. 
Oft came his curse as on he rode ; 
Swifter his foaming courser strode ; 



THE LADYE CHACE. 93 

For in his torn and reeking side 
Deep were the rider's rowels dyed ; 
And, swifter still, from Athwold's eye 
The shafts of frenzy seemed to fly. 
" Curst be the hour," anon he cried, 
"That gained for me my hapless bride ! 
And doubly curst " — uprose a bird, 
He thought an arrow's whiz he heard, 
Or close pursuit. But on he went ; 
Wings to his flight his fury lent, 
And, sore aweary, on he flew, 

Himself sore spurred by frantic fears, 
Till breaks a smiling vale to view. 
And, far, 'tis Harewood's M'-all appears. 

III. 

It was a strong old castle, gray 

And dingy with the swart of time ; 
And many a tale of olden day 
Proclaimed it seat of mortal fray 

'Twixt rival lords and fearful crime. 
High peered its dusky towers in air ; 

But, though it seemed so drear a hold, 
Full many a tale of pleasure there, 

And love romantic misht be told. 



94 THE LADVE CHACE. 

Oft 'neath its roof the boisterous bout 

And jovial wassailing had been ; 
And oft the long-resounding shout 
Of merry thanes, in joyous rout, 

Those halls had heard, I ween. 
And there bright eyes had often shone, 

Or wept, unseen, I trow ; 
And many a lovely bride ; but none 
So lovely as the lonely one 

That there was pining now. 

IV. 

The lady, in her casement's bay, 

Sat where a windharp chanced to play ; 

That harp by miracle that sings, 

No touch of mortal on its strings, 

A dreamy supernatural shell, 

— 'Twas Dunstan's wonder-work, they tell : 

"And give it only air," — said he, 

"Angels shall wake its minstrelsy 

And shed around a pensive tone 

Responsive to the spirit's moan." 

The prelate to Elfreda's lord 

Gave this strange harp of wond'rous chord. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 95 

And to her window came, each day, 
Creatures unseen its strings to play ; 
And now she listens — while her ear 
Seems such a song as this to hear : 

I. 

" Is there an ill like loneliness. 

When mountains swell 'twixt youth and 
love, 
Nor oft the angel-visits bless 

Of our love-laden carrier-dove ! 
Is there an ill that hath no cure, 
More sad, more grievous to endure, 
When not alone the evil saddens, 
But long-indulged I'emembrance maddens, 
And absence groweth to despair, 
Not in itself so hard to bear 

As that o'eradded ill it brings — 
That we have none our grief to share, 

Or feel how deep our sorrow stings ! 

2, 

Oh ! sure the dove that went of old 
Out o'er th' assuaging water, bold, 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



And found no rest for weary wing, 
O'er greedy waters hovering, 
And backward hied, unwont to roam, 
And sought again her prison home, 
Was happier far, though stifled there. 
Than that which 'scaped to purer air, 
And found a rest on some sweet shore, 
But went, and was beheld no more." 

V. 
The lady starts — the sighing breeze 

Another sound has borne : 
Afar, a mounted knight she sees, 

And hears his larum horn. 
'Tis Athwold, for 'tis Athwold's steed, 

But 'tis not Athwold's pace : 
He comes as if from martial deed ; 
For see, the barb's hot haunches bleed, 

And flushed the rider's face. 
Why comes he red and raging so ? 

But list — the drawbridge-chain ! 
Rings on the stony court below 

The horse-hoofs' steel amain : 
Startled, she rose ; the colour flew 
From her soft cheek, and chill the dew 



THE LADYE CHACE. 97 

Rose on her snowy forehead dank — 
"Athwold ! " she cried, then faint she sank: 
As instant, breathless, at her feet, 

And frantic with the fears he felt. 
His heart full fraught with passion's heat, 

His eye all frenzy, Athwold knelt. 
He spoke not ; — there they were awhile — 

The trembling beauty, and her lord — 
Like statues in a minster aisle : 

A scene that spoke, without a word. 

VI. 

Afoments there are when words are vain, 
When heart with heart must lone complain. 
When sighs for sudden ill or grief, 
Together blent find sweet relief : 
When breast, to troubled breast allied, 
Pours forth the spirit's struggling tide ; 
For not with feeble words of woe 
The soul's full fountains overflow ; 
Nor oft with anguished cry or groan ; 
But, like the soul, unseen, unknown. 
Prevail the sorrows of the night, 
Till breaks as silently the light. 
7 



9© THE LADYE CHACE. 

VII. 

Sucli did the breathless moment seem 

That saw them sad and silent there ; 
A thrilling space ! But when the dream 
Passed off, there came a tender beam, 
' That bade him all his ill declare. 

Frighted, for once, to see her fair, 
Athwold looked up — an angel's eyes 

Were sparkling glorious in his own ; 
And shall he lose so bright a prize ? 

Oh, 'twas enough, the thought alone ! 
Short is his time. A moment's space, * 

And he may hear the hated horn 
That calls him from her blest embrace, 

Never, ah, never to return ! 
He looked once more on that fair face, 

As if her inmost soul to learn. 

VIII. 

And back on his her eye was bent, 
In sympathy for griefs unknown; 

And her soft voice — what healing went 
To his torn heart in every tone ! 



THE LADYE CHACE. 99 

O'er his bowed head awhile she leant, 

And seemed a minister of love 
On mercy's errand kindly sent 

From ever-blooming homes above. 
A moment's glaijce at such a face, 

It seemed enough her soul to know; 
Sure, never was such heavenly grace 

Blent with a heart untrue below ! 
So Athwold fondly deemed, when deep 
His inward soul no more could keep 
Restrained the swollen tide, that long 
Had struggled with its barriers strong ; 
The fount must flow : but is she true ? 
He looked, half doubting — doubted 
still ; 
But looked once more, and now he knew : 

That rosy kiss has sent a thrill 
Through his deep mind that banished 

fear. 
** Yes, thou shalt all my story hear, 
And I will trust thy love ; for sure, 
Those eyes, so tendfer and so pure. 
Bespeak a heart as pure as they, 
And mild as their own holy ray." 



lOO THE LADYE CHACE. 

IX. 

He told her all his story then, 
And all her tangled history too ; 

And oft her visage changed ; again 
It changed, and silently she drew 
Her fluttered breath ; and as she knew 

Each chequered mystery revealed, 

All open now the secret sealed, 

She trembled, glowed, then pallid turned ; 

But ah ! as from his lips she learned 

His treachery and his crime confessed, 

How deep she breathed, how throbb'd her 
breast ! 

X. 

But, was her sigh for Athwold then? 

She heard, with innocent surprise, 
His well-smoothed narrative; but when 

He told her of the gorgeous prize — 
The throne through his dark fault she 

lost, 
The tale, though all so fairly glossed. 
Was yet, for one imprison'd there, 
A cruel mock. Her forehead fair 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



Clouded — perchance or e'er she knew, 
And Athwold saw ; — 'twas death to view ! 

XI. 

Like dimples on an ebbing tide 
The wreath, the name, the reign of bride, 
How transient is her hour of pride ! 
Rightly we deem for days so fleet 
Ail flowers should yield their every sweet. 
For never yet young wife could brook 
Frown or neglect or alter'd look ; 
That he who swore her honeymoon 
Through life should last — should change so 

soon ; 
That he who knelt her hand to crave. 
Should wound the trusting heart she gave. 
Ask, then — that moment of surprise— 
What meant the tear in Elfred's eyes ? 
While her fresh bridegroom yet was he. 
His captive and his victim she. 
How could she more than pity ? — how — 

Even when her taper fingers played 
With the brown locks that decked his brow. 
And o'er his noble forehead strayed — 



102 THE LADYE CHACE. 

How could she more than sorrow shed 
On his devoted, friendless head? 
How could she feel but this alone : 
How sad his fate — how hard her own? 

xn. 

Oh, there are fays of poets' dreams, 
Maidens of gay romancers' themes, 
Women of fable, who had ne'er 
Allowed cold self to enter there ; 
Who of a bride's best days bereaved, 
For him, for him alone had wept ; 
And, rifled of a crown, had grieved 
That still the secret was not kept : 
Who ne'er had for a moment brooked 
His haggared doubt, as wild he looked 
For calmer smiles, with pardon fraught, 
But to forgiving breast had caught, 
At once, his longing, fond embrace ; 
And — all the angel in their face — 
Had whispered to his troubled ear 
Love's magic words, the storm to clear, 
And bid the darkness disappear. 



THE LADYE CHACE. IO3 

Who doubts such gentle wives have been? 
But ah ! though oft ha fables seen, 
Not oft such angels stoop below ! 
Nor oft shall erring mortal so 

By erring mortal be forgiven ! 
It were a blessed thing to show 

Elfreda's inmost heart a heaven ; 
But ah ! chill history bids me veil 

The feelings then of either breast ; 
For not a fable is the tale, 

But sternest truth in numbers drest. 

XIII. 

But his dread secret all disclosed, 
And her full eye to his opposed, 
Say, doth it glow with rays that light 
The frown of his appall'd affright ? 
And will she grant the one poor boon — 

The last rash venture of his fears 
Which his chafed soul must urge so soon ? 

Or, fearful thought I — 

But, sparkling tears 
Gemmed the long lashes of her eye ; 
And oh ! perchance the deep-drawn sigh 



I04 THE LADYE CHACE. 

That stirs her bosom is for him ! 

"I'll trust," he cried, "the drops that 

dim 
In such dear eyes the cheering ray ! " 
But hark ! what echoes far away ? 

Alas ! 'tis Edgar's signal heard : 
Athwold has turned to kiss, once more. 

His fatal bride, like that poor bird 
That, when the vulture hovers o'er. 
Still woos his mate with billing love, 
Nor heeds the talon'd death above. 

XIV. 

So long with her alone ! and yet 

He hath not dared the boon to crave. 
For which an hour agone they met — 

For which that guilty tale he gave. 
But now he prays on bended knee. 

With trembling haste and stammering 
tongue — 
While still he listens, fearfully. 

To Edgar's lengthening larum rung — 
That she will not one boon deny — 

One last, poor promise. She has given 



THE LADYE CHACE. I05 

Such promise, in her sorrowing eye ; 

And Athwold trusts it, ev'n as heaven ! 
He prays her, ere she greet the king — 

For such the kickless art he tried — 
From her fkir hand to doff the ring, 

From her white brow the veil of bride ; 

To fling her coronet aside : 
Nay, like a peasant's lass to be, 
To M^ear the guise of low degree. 

And long as Edgar might abide 
In Harewood's halls, his eyes to shun ; 
' ' For oh ! such charms, my lovely one. 

If to such eyes they should appear, 

What have I not, alas ! to fear ? 
Oh, think of what for thee I've done. 

And still thy once-loved Athwold hear ! 
Say, Elfred, tell me, is it won — 

My poor request ? The king is near ! 
Answer — oh, answer ! At the gate 
I hear him ! Heavens ! he must not wait ! 
Nay, hark ! they call !— 'Tis all too late ! " 

XV. 

Ling'ring, yet forced to fly, he turned : 
" Is, then, my last entreaty spurned? " 



Io6 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Still looking back on her, he flew ; 

His eyes his fading hope betrayed. 
Did she assent? He never knew ; 

He left her fainting, fallen, afraid — 
Left her — but ye shall judge full soon, 
Whether she gave or not, the boon. 
At his high gate he met the king7 
And greeted all the attendant ring : 
While Edgar marvelled thus to see 

His suite so simply ushered in, 
And wondered that it so should be. 

When Athwold surely must have been — 
So swift he rode — before them there 
Full long enough, -with loyal care, 

To range his vassal train. 
Or, chance ! — suspicion's horrid flare 

Gleamed o'er the monarch's brain : 
And — *'Fool was I," he inward thought, 

" To let him thus escape ! Who knows 
What horrid plot that hour hath wrought, 

Of subtle vengeance on his foes ? " 

XVI. 

But Athwold had, the while, forgot 
The poor pretext his frenzy made ; 



THE LADYE CHACE. 107 

Nor could divine why every spot 

King Edgar's falcon eye surveyed. 
O'er the paved court the train he brought, 

And at the lofty portal said 
A seeming vs^elcome to them all. 

But Edgar feared the host that led, 
And cautiously he trode the hall. 

For he had heard of hated kings 
By their own vassals trapped and slain ; 

And minstrels sung of dreadful things 
Done by the dauntless regicide, 

Or by the lawless Dane. 
Such tales as these they fabled wide, 

Though yet the bloody thane 
Had not o'er Duncan's pillow bent, 
To leave it all with gore besprent. 
To wash his hands, and reign. 
In gloomy forms an hour they spent. 

For each the other's actions feared ; 
So dull passed off their merriment. 

Till now the banquet-hour appeared. 

XVII. 
Dread hour for Athwold. To his board 
With formal words he led his lord. 



I08 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Where — as in masque for Christmas-tide, 
Welcomed her king his dazzling bride. 

A peasant's lass her garb beseemed 
Ev'n as her husband's whim proposed, 

But beauties Edgar had not dreamed 
Her jupe of shepherdess disclosed. 
Deep her chaste kirtle veiled the knee ; 
Yet shone in moulded symmetry. 
The tapering ankle, nude and white, 
As moved one dimpled foot and light. 
In soft receding demi-pace, 
The court'sy's gliding step of grace, 
Through thin disguise of village maid 
That all the high-born dame betrayed. 
Her lips of rose, not wholly mute. 
Breathed rev' rent words, with voice of flute: 
O'erflowed her shoulders smooth and bare 
The golden glory of her hair ; 
A silken snood her forehead crossed ; 
Her belt nor gold nor gems embossed ; 
And from her dais, in form and hue, 
When flashed such charms on Edgar's view, 
Seem'd some sweet native of the skies 
In star-like sheen before his eyes. 



THE LADVE CHACE. IO9 

XVIII. 

Back drew the king : the peers amazed, 
On Elfred and on Athwold gazed ; 
While warm her bkishes purpled o'er 

The lustre as of Dian's cheek, 
And brightened — all too bright before — 

Fresh beauty, which the fatal freak 
Of such attire the more displayed, 
And Edgar's heart its captive made. 
Like flowers, with death in their perfume, 
That ravish with their deadly bloom. 
Kindled king Edgar's wrath the while, 
And Athwold knew how false his smile, 
As to the feast the wondering throng 

And hapless host together turned ; 
And vainly rose the banquet-song, 
Though sweet the measure, smoothly 
strong, 

For fury's flame the rivals burned. 
And oft with rage the courtier saw 

His sov'reign's dalliance with his bride ; 
Not Edgar heeded duty's law. 

When throned the Queen of Loves be- 
side. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



XIX. 

The while an aged minstrel sung : 

He tuned his harp to love ; 
And still like youthful poet's tongue 
The witching, wooing numbers rung, 
Though cold his hand, the chords among, 

And white the flowing locks above. 
Oh, muse divine ! thy magic sealing 
Stamps so deep each hallowed feeling. 

That life's winter, wont to sever 
Love's sweet ties from human heart. 

Harms the sacred poet's never 
With his all unholy dart. 

Oh ! the poet loves forever. 
Comes on loving errand hither. 
And, though all its fibres wither. 

Still with love his heart is warm — 
Warm with youth's inspiring heat ; 

Or, if fevered, 'tis the storm 
Of life's first glow that nerves its beat — 
For his heart is fervour's seat. 

Ne'er can poet's heart grow old — 
Never can his life-blood chill ; 



THE LADVE CHACE. I] 

And, though age about him fold 
Its winter mantle, 'mid the cold 
He wears it like a poet still. 

XX. 

An eastern tale the minstrel gave, 

By one who served the caliphs taught ; 
"A knight of Spain, he loved a slave. 
And from an Emir's palace caught 
The brightest pearl of all his hoard." 
Such song heard Edgar at the board ; 
At least its fervid close he heard 
And listen'd to its every word, 
While thus of Beauty, artful praise 
The bard poured forth in wily lays. 

I, 

The captive knight would often moan 
" — Ay, 'tis not good to be alone ; " 
Yet oft T marvel as I muse. 
What — had it been for man to choose, 
What — had no higher thought supplied 
All he could covet in his bride — 
What had the wit of man express'd 
Of one to share his soul and breast ? 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



Give him the sculptor's fancies bold — 
Had he — the maiden's shapely mould, 
Devised — or ev'n one dimple's charm, 
Lurking in dainty cheek or arm ? 
Give him, with painter's pencil true. 
Of pearl and rose, each tint and hue ; 
Give gold and azure with brown shade 
Such as in forest fount is laid ; 
And bid him, of himself supply 
What best would please his soul and eye 
What might supremest skill invent ? 
What like that world of wonderment 
That comes on youth's enraptured sight, 
In woman's flush of morning light ? 

2. 

For beauty means what God design'd, 
What perfect came from perfect Mind : 
But let some godlike power be given 
From heaven itself to dream of heaven, 
Let glorious types of beauty there 
Be brought to less etherial air, 
Or grant an Adam might conceive 
To match his own the shape of Eve ; 



THE LADYE CHACE. 13 3 

Be given, the moulded form of wife, 

The woman — lacking yet her life ; 

Her Parian clay, without a spot, 

Her hues of health, but breathing not ; 

Say, what we love, who next should give ? 

Who bid the woman's spirit live? 

Or who inspii^e the grace of mind. 

In which a purer self we find — 

A nature — human all — but then 

Eluding and bewildering men. 

With something of a world unknown 
Man cannot wholly make his own, 
In flesh of flesh and b(?ne of bone ? 

3- 
Like lights that make the Arctic day 
How flash her fancies as they play ; 
O'ermastering logic with a tear ; 
With Passion's pulse deposing fear ; 
With Faith, the starry steep to climb 
And calm in suffering, so sublime ! 
As varied rhymes in minstrels' words, 
As notes diverse in music's chords, 
s j'jiiiiih S"it>fn 



114 THE LADYE CHACE. 

So woman's ways with ours combine, 

To frame a harmony divine, 

Her sweet unlikeness chiming still 

With what is deepest in our will ; 

Her thoughts, emotions, gentle jjowers, 

Twins to our own and yet not ours, 

Creating, in our darling blent, 

Our heart's unrest, our heart's content — 

Sweet music, for the monotone 

Of what was selfish all and lone ; 

And giv'n our nature to transfuse 

Till all we are in her we lose. 

4- 
Oh ! strange that Nature should supply 
To gentleness and symmetry 
Such hidden strength — that, mightier far 
Than man's supremest forces are. 
Bows kings and heroes at its feet, 
And sets to conquest bound and mete. 
Sooner shall human thought invent 
New stars to gem the firmament ; 
Or sooner, all the flowers of May 
Come by mere chance, so fresh and gay, 



THE LADYE CHACE. I15 

Than ought save skill and thought divine, 

Might woman's mystery design. 

Homage to him such charms who made 

Be ever by his creature paid ; 

Nor let mere Paynims bow the head 

To say — as poor Mohammed said, 

When Zeyneb to his sight unveiled 

And all her loveliness exhaled, 

' ' O miracle of earth and sky ; 

O ravishment of heart and eye ! 

How marvellous, is Allah's plan, 

His thought of such a mate for man ! " 

XXI. 

So it was, this aged bard 

Sung of love like youthful lover : 

And a smile was his reward, 
With a coronal to cover 

His white hairs that told the story 

Of the poet's hope of glory. 

Now when age and years declining 

Made the wreath scarce worth the twining, 

Oh, 'twas given — and tears bespoke 
How dear it once had been ; 



Il6 THE LADYE CHACE. 

But long and cold neglect had broke 

The harper's heart, I ween. 
Yet, minstrel, weep not ! Ever so, 

Since Scio's wanderer sung, 
The poet hath been heir of woe. 
With ne'er a kindly smile to throw 
A light upon his path below ; 
Till chilled at length his rapture's glow, 

And numbed his hallowed tongue. 
Then comes too late the wreath : and yet, 
Surviving grief shall pay thy debt, 
Though all ui^known to thee. 
And where thy holy tomb shall be. 
No doubt full many a wreath shall wave 
Above thy consecrated grave ; 
And many a weeping form be bent 
Above thine urn-crowned monument. 
To mourn thine unrewarded song, 
When harp in hand — thy journey long 
Thou wentest, ere the brighter days 
When lips are mute that speak not praise. 
Why should'st thou weep ? The harp is 

thine ! 
What need of bays thy brow to twine, 



THE LADVE CHACE. II7 

When that thou hast ? Oh, minstrel, sing; ! 
There's magic in the tuneful string, 
And power, that makes amends alone 

For the rude world's unlavished smile — 
Though none requite, its gentler tone 

May still thy hermit soul beguile. 

XXII. 

Again, he sang — and soft the lay, 
That bade the tender passions play, 
Was witching Edgar's soul away. 
But Athwold checked the notes of woo- 
ing— 
Charming was their amorous cooing. 
But they warbled his undoing, 

When that hated guest was near. 
" Sing, old bard, of war ! " he cried ; 
And the minstrel's harp replied 

With notes to warrior dear. 
Of Uther's dauntless son he told, 
That led the Christian prowess bold 

'Gainst faithless Frank and Dane, 
And spread so wide the fame of old 
Of blest Messiah's reign : 



Il8 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Then flamed the harp, such notes that 

flung, 
And rapture fired the poet's tongue 
As each stern giant's fall he sung. 
That cursed the cross in vain. 
Oh, glorious was that cross emblazed 
Upon the banner Arthur raised — 
And terrible the vengeance wrought 
When Arthur's sword for Jesu fought — 
And short the cursing caitiff's breath 
That Jesu's mercy spurned in death ! 
But ah ! his notes, they change to woe ; 
They wail the hero's overthrow, 
And dying, fading on the string, 
Still chiding weep, and weeping sing 

Of false Guenevra's broken vow — 
Of Launcelot, traitor to his king — 

Of Mord red's dark deceit, and how 
Excalibar away did spring 
On that sad field where Arthur fell : 
Though still consoling legends tell 
How Arthur lives and loves the while 
In Avalon's enchanted isle. 



THE LADYE CHACE. IT9 

XXIII. 

Then godlike Alfred's reign of gold 
In golden numbers sweetly rolled 

Adown the poet's lyre : 
He sung how Alfred was a bard, 
And how he passed the Danish guard 

In holy bards' attire ; 
And how he gave the pilgrim bread ; 
And how he lodged in peasant's shed ; 
And how he reigned, and how he read, 

And was a nation's sire. 
Of Leolf's deadly arm he told, 

And Edmund's heart of fire. 
That slew the daring robber bold 
That bearded him in royal hold, 

And waked his tiger ire. 
And oh ! of Edwy's grief he sung, 
And her dear love to whom he clung — 

His fair but hapless bride ! 
Then checked the strain ; the lady's ear 
Must not the cruel story hear, 

Of how Elgiva died. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



XXIV. 

And so, through all the banquet long, 
The harper poured his magic song, 
Nor left unsung the worthy praise 
Of royal Edgar's sunny days. 
Oh, Edgar was a king of kings ! 
And as the poet touched the strings 
In laud of him, with flattering guile, 
The ravished monarch heai^d the while. 
Then higher as the numbers rose. 
And still his fame, at ev^ery close. 
Seemed mounting to the skies, 
He sought Elfreda's answering eyes, 
If haply now her envied smile 
With his might sympathize. 

XXV. 

How comes it that in every hour 

Of pomp, of triumph, or of power. 

We turn from every joy about, 

From self-applause, from people's shout, 

From flowers below, from wreaths above, 

To seek the smile of those we love ? 



THE LADYE CHACP:. 



How is it that the poet's bays 

Charm not his heart like lady's praise? 

How is it that the monarch's throne 

Can never glad his heart alone — 

Or, girt with peers, such pleasures bring 

As when soft woman owns him king, 

Thrones him in heart, and to his sway 

Yields hand and all her life away ? 

XXVI. 

So Edgar's met the beauty's eyes, 

And soft the glance they gave ; 
How came like death the chill surprise 

O'er Athwold's spirit brave ! 
And she, frail Helen of the fray, 
Full oft amid that stifled play 
Of passions, frantic though enchained, 

On her sad spouse her glances threw ; 
And, sharply, he, though well he reined 

The fury that so frantic grew. 
Turned oft to meet her gentle eye, 
For roving glance of sympathy ; 
But met, alas ! from her he loved, 

Compassion's kindly cruel beam : 



122 THE LADYE CHACE. 

A smile of sorrow, that still proved 

All love was gone ; or that did seem 
Perchance its lone, last lingering ray, 
When love in pity melts away. 
Then changed her sight, with such a look 
As never lover's heart could brook : 
'Twas sympathy with sorrow blent. 
It changed again as Edgar leant 
Enamoured, o'er her beauteous breast ; 
And idly she the king addressed, 
In words as fickle, and as free, 
As woi'ds from beauty's lips might be. 

XXVII. 

Oh, like the stroke of lariim bell. 
That beats the prison'd felon's knell, 
And, 'mid the dungeon's silence dumb, 
Gives dreadful note his hour has come — 
Broke that soft voice on Athwold's ear. 
'Twas worse than agony to hear ! 
All hope was o'er ; his last weak stay — 
A whim at best was swept away ; 
And now his soul is taught to view. 
In all she doth, some terror new. ■ 



THE LADYE CHACE. 123 

With haggard gaze, and thought as wild, 
He marked how faithlessly she smiled ; 
And ah ! with maddened brain, he deemed 

Elfreda never shone so fair. 
As now by Edgar's side she seemed. 

And, truth, they were a noble pair ! 
And Edgar felt the bitter wrong 

That such a jewel of his crown 
Had been a traitor's prize so long ; 

And he himself, like churlish clown 
All unavenging — smiling ever 

On the base rifler of his rest, 
Still unsuspecting, dreaming never 

Of stranger plumage in his nest. 

xxvni. 

Like that poor bird whose toil-built cot 

Is prey for every roving wing — 
Who buildeth, but enjoyeth not, 

And still, all innocence, doth sing : 
Like that poor bird were his the lot — 
The pang of consciousness and thought 
King Edgar felt. " And was it I," 
He said, " have been a villain's tool 



124 THE LADYE CHACE. 

'Gainst mine own peace, unwittingly — 

My servant's wittol, and his fool?" 
Sunk his proud heart within ; and, stung 

Ev'n to its core, he scarce could keep 
The flaming fury from his tongue. 

That in his spirit burned so deep. 
Nigh did his restless steel forth -leap, 

Full often, from his belted side ; 
But cooler reason bade it sleep. 

Though ne'er before so fiercely tried. 

XXIX. 

So, by a hated rival wooed. 
Sat Athwold's bride, in facile mood, 
On Edgar answering glances throwing — - 
Those dear young smiles, that once were 

glowing 
For him alone ; but now were shed 
On his lewd rival's haughty head. 
All unadorn'd her strange attire, 
Yet Athwold's gnawing soul of fire. 
Even from her artless beauty, drew 
New proof that she was all untrue. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



What though he saw his prayer obtained — 
The boon he asked, tho' luckless, gained ? 
Clearly, at last, he read her thought, 
How with his spouse his wish had 

wrought ; 
When wildly from her preseiice flying. 
He left her frighted, unreplying. 
Fallen in fear, and faint as fair. 
To gem and deck her shining hair, 
Or leave its golden wealth to flow, 
As beauty's art might best bestow. 
"Oh fool!" he sighed, "deem not for 

thee 
vShe chose so unadorned to be. 
The lovely trait'ress knows full well. 
Of native charms the mighty spell. 
No need of pearls or bride-wreath set, 
Nor coronal to grace, nor yet 
To win the lord of England's throne, 
Aught save her eyes' soft light alone." 
Thrice fatal prayer and boon for him. 
Who, knowing loveliness is dim, 
And only dim when veiled and hid 
With fashion's gauds— had rashly bid 



126 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Th' unveiling of the bright surprise, 
At such an hour, to Edgar's eyes ! 
And Athwold, now but deeper caught 
E'en in the toils himself had wrought — 
Of hope, of conscience, peace bereft, 
Lovelorn and friendless, lonely left, 
Must feel this folly with the rest — 
The barbs that rankle in his breast. 

XXX. 

Yet long upon those charms he gazed, 

Now his no more — for ever lost ! 
Still as he looked, compelled, he praised, 
While raged his spirit, tempest-tossed. 
Not she the veil, the gem, the ring, 
Needed to win that amorous king : 
'Twas but herself, undeck'd, to show, 
To teach the manly breast to glow ; 
And fairer to the royal heart 
She seemed, unaided all by art ; 
Though still king Edgar quell'd his love, 
While hate within did sterner move, 
As oft he looked, admiring more ; 
But when the banqueting was o'er, 



THE LADYE CHACE. I27 

And the red wine went circling round, 
The deep-drained bowl at length unbound 
The cords that held him in control, 
And loosed his fury-fretted soul. 

XXXI. 

Elfreda from the hall had gone ; 
And Athwold now, with foes alone. 
Frenzied, full oft the goblet quaff'd, 
And o'er each brimming beaker laughed. 
He laughed; but such a laugh well nigh 
Might seem the mockery of a sigh ! 
He turned; and Edgar's burning eye 
Flash'd full on his — 

" We'll pledge thy bride, 
Thy lovely spouse," the monarch cried, 
" And curse on traitors, far and wide !" 

XXXII. 
Athwold, full charg'd with smothered ire, 
Felt on his cheek the blazing fire : 
"A curse on tryants!" loud he rung. 
And frantic toward the king he sprung. 
Aback the frighted nobles drew ; 
Swift from his scabbard vengeance flew ; 



THE LADYE CHACE. 



But round their sovereign quick they closed, 
And his descending blade opposed . 
"Slave!" cried the king, and broke the 
throng ; 

But struggling Athwold turned at bay, 
And through the courtiers struggling strong, 

Hewed with his steel a bloody way. 
He gains the door — the court — the gate ! 

"He flies! — pursue him — cut him down!" 
But he has 'scaped beyond their hate, 

And, screened by moonlight's shadows 
brown. 

He sees th' astonished train pursue : 
He marks each former jealous mate, 

And marks swift-mounted Edgar too ; 

Wildly he hears him peal halloo. 

And rings the cry the wild wood through. 

XXXIII. 

** To horse!" Anon a servile throng 
From the old gate-way burst ; 

He hears them as they howl along. 
Ay, hears himself accurs'd. 

Heavens ! his own vassals are engaged 

In hunt of him ! — then, thrice-enraged, 



THE LADVE CHACE. I29 

He moans, while all his heart-strings 

writhe, 
" Oh, how unlike the hunting blithe 
We joined at morn." But hark ! at fault, 

The baffled train are hasting back. 
" So soon give o'er the fierce assault ? " 
Nay, harken ! list! — they cry — "The 

pack ! 
Ho ! put the bloodhounds on his track." 

XXXIV. 

The curdling blood refused to play 

In his full veins ; but fury lent 
What Nature gave not, and away, 

Faint, panting, reckless all, he went. 
He heard them to the castle flying, 
He heard them shouting, and replying ; 
Oh, Holy Rood ! and now he hears 
The hungry hounds. 'Tis'in his ears — 
The burst of their unsated yell. 
So, in full cry come up, they tell. 
For shrieking souls, the hounds of hell. 
The bark rings out — away he flies : 
Oh, God be bless'd — the howling dies 
9 



130 THE LADYE CHACE. 

Afar — afar ; they scent astray ; 

Yet on he went, away — away ! 

The breeze swells up — 'tis nearer now — 

That cry once more. He knew not how, 

But on he flew ; and though no goal 
Bounded that race, he ran, until 
O'erspent at last, he reached a rill 

And slaked his thirst — then climb'd the 
knoll 
That from that forest-valley swells 
To hills beyond. No more the yells 
Of the hot bloodhounds does he hear, 
But yet their echoes stun his ear; 
And up he strains. A distant bark ! 
And upward still ; — but rest thee ! Hark 

'Tis silent now : nay, list ! — perchance 
Some fox is stirr'd ; — up, up he toiled : 

The height is gained. A swimming 
glance 
Back on the moonlit vale he threw ; 
There stands his castle ! They seem foiled 
In their pursuit, and calm the view. 

He reeled, and came a blessed trance ; 
He swooned, and gently down he sank. 
All senseless, on a shadow'd bank. 



THE LADYE CHACE. 13] 

XXXV. 

Again, the pack, but far away ! 

Faint grows their howling : they're astray; 

Some game's afoot that saveth him, 
And o'er the hapless man to-day 
Th' untiring bloodhounds shall not bay. 
He heard not, knew not ; — there he lay. 

His eye-ball as in death 't were dim. 
Is this brave Athwold ? Let him rest, 
Even where he lies ; his troubled breast 
And harass'd limbs have need of rest. 
Faint, breathless, helpless, seemed his soul 
Well nigh had gained its mortal goal. 
When came the trance ; but then he fell. 
And slumbered babe-like, though the yell 
Of hound, and man more merciless. 
Fast on his toilsome trail might press. 
Ah ! little thought he, when at morn 
He waked the echoes with his horn. 
That those high hills, which far he viewed, 
Crown'd with blue mist and azured wood. 
Or towering bleak with naked height, 
Should lend his only lodge at night ! 



132 THE LADYE CHACE. 

XXXVL 

Nature's own pillow gave him rest ; 
And there, as on a mother's breast, 
He slept as ne'er before he slept, 
While o'er his swoon the dew-drops wept. 

And who so heartless, had not shed 

A tear upon his houseless head. 
As there he lay, an outcast now. 
The night-wind cold upon his brow. 

And fallen upon that chilly bed ? 
Yet dreamless slept he. When he woke, 
He found him 'neath a tangled oak ; 
A nodding thicket veiled his view. 
But he just saw the starlight through. 

And then again he slept ; and well 
And long he rested, till he thought 
He heard a voice. He woke : 'twas 
nought ! 

He must have dreamed it ; or the swell 
Of the cold breeze his ear had caught. 

List ! — Is it nothing ? Something fell 
On rustling leaves : What passeth there ? 
Perchance poor Reynard from his lair. 
Some startled doe, or timid hare : 



THE LADYE CHACE. 133 

But he was wakened, and he rose. 
Silent he muses ; scarce he knows 
How, why he's there. 

'Twas dead of night, 
And from his covert lodge he stole. 
The westering moon still poured its light. 
And, truth, it was a gentle sight. 
But soothed not Athwold's soul. 

XXXVII. 

He lean'd him 'gainst a rock that, lone, 
Forth jutted, where the moonbeams shone, 
And, for a moment, mute he stood, 
Wild gazing from that mountain wood. 
On the broad plain outstretch'd beneath. 
That seem'd— for fogs o'erhung the heath, 
A maz'd mirage, a sea of death. 
Beyond, full sadly he surveys. 
Bleared by the moonlight's silvery haze, 
His forest hydes, his fields, and all 

That, won of old from stranger hands, 
Pertain'd to Harewood's ancient thrall ; 
And now to him — his dowry lands. 



134 THE LADYE CHACE. 

His throbbing forehead aches to view : 

But worse, when next he turns his eyes 

Afar where dingy turrets rise, 
Murky, though moonht, peering through 

The mist that in the valley lies. 
The towers of Harewood — there are they, 

The moonbeams on their bulwarks 
streaming ; 
But ah! a soul-distracting ray, 

From one bright oriel gleaming, 
Is torturing poor Athwold's heart 
With jealousy's envenom'd smart. 
'Tis from Elfreda's lattice high 
That hateful light, invades his eye ; 
And ah! who knows but there it lights 
A rival, to unhallow'd rites. 
Where Edgar, at Elfreda's side, 

Caresses one so late his own ; 
Perchance, already calls her bride. 

Or rends with impious hand her zone. 

XXXVIII. 

His bursting temples, and his eye, 
That from its socket seem'd to fly, 



THE LADYE CHACE. I35 

With the fierce vollies, loudly rung 
Hot from his heart and fever'd tongue, 
Tell how his inmost spirit burns. 
With fist fast clench'd, to heaven he turns, 
And "Here I swear," he cried aloud, 
"On thee, my love's despoiler proud, 
Revenge, that ne'er shall slake before 
It drinks thy false heart's wai^mest gore. 
Bear witness, heaven — My wrath shall be 
Baptized in blood! Oh, might I see 
Ev'n now the tyrant, face to face ; 
God and good angels, grant me grace, 

His life shall pay" 

The thicket broke 
Sudden beside him as he spoke, 
"Draw, then, thy sword" — a voice replied, 
Hoarse mutt'ring ; and, with sturdy stride, 
A vizor'd shape before him stood : 
"Draw, wretch, and make thy promise 

good!" 
Aghast, he turned. His sudden foe 
Had raised his falchion for the blow; 
And dark he stood, his eye of ire 
Through his grim beaver flashing fire. 



136 THE LADYE CHACE. 

An instant, and they closed in strife — 
Clash'd their keen sword-blades fierce and 

rife, 
Athwold, with nought to lose but life; 
His foeman, not his life alone. 
Perchance, a courtier — or a throne. 

XXXIX. 

The pale moon sunk at last, and fell 
Set the dread dark o'er mount and dell ; 
Not even the twinkling stars were seen, 
For the dun clouds were rolled between. 
'Twas then that vizor'd shape, so late, 
Knock'd at the castle's postern gate, 
And by the porter's lanthorn dim 
View'd his light wounds with triumph grim. 
Weak was his voice, and faint his hand ; 
But, as he drew his batter'd brand. 
That yet was stain'd with gore undried, 
"See, there's thy master's blood!" he cried. 

XL. 
And when the purpled morning broke 
O'er that brown heath and forest hill, 



THE LADYE CHACE, 137 

A passing woodman, as he woke 

The early echoes, whistling shrill. 
As to his morning toil he fared, 

Stopt short where Alhwold's lodge ap- 
peared : 
For lo ! the deep-scarr'd soil was bared 

Of its green sod, and dark besmeared 
With recent blood, and stamps of heels 

Screwed on the turf; and lo! the brake 
Curtain'd by tangled shrubs, reveals 

A slumberer — whom he strove to wake, 
Nor strove in vain ; but backward sprung, 
When Athwold, with enfeebled tongue 
And glassy eyes — a moment seemed 
As one who lay entranced, or dreamed. 
Then clasp'd his hands — 

And feebly cried, 
" Sweet Jesu — mercy !" — so he died. 

XLI. 

Yet not the minstrel's rhyme may tell 
By whom he bled — by whom he fell, 
For ancient story ceaseth here ; 
Yet pray it ne'er may truth appear 



138 THE LADYE CHACE. 

The minstrel's self, in anger's fire, 
Had stain'd the hand that swept the lyre, 
And claimed a fearful vengeance so, 
Against his tamed and humbled foe. 
Some deem that Edgar's self pursued. 
Alone, his victim to the wood ; 
And, searching through the forest dark, 
His vow of treason chanc'd to mark : 
While others tell a sadder tale. 
And say the Poet of the Dale, 
Disguised as Ethred, beard and all, 
Sang at the tragic festival ; 
And wily, by his art inspired, 
Timotheus-like, the monarch fired ; 
That by Ms craft, unguarded stood 
The gate that open'd to the wood ; 
That 'twas from /lim Lord Athwold quailed 
When his bold arm the king assailed ; 
From /ihn he flew; but, in the weed 
Of harper old, they did not heed 
What next he did. And while the rest 
Rush'd boist'rous forth, as liked them best. 
He stript his masque, his beard, his pall. 
And slipt unheeded through the hall; 



THE LADYE CHACE. 139 

And loos'd a stag from out the park, 
To call aside the blood-hounds' bai'k, 
Nor lured alone the pack astray, 
But wiled the baffled king away. 
So then light-armed he sought the wood, 
To make his morning promise good — 
That vow profane for Christian breath, 
"Athwold this night shall sup with Death." 

XLII. 
The secret in their tombs must sleep, 
Who wrought the tragic story deep; 
Though still the Muse, in doating, saith, 

(She would not harm her minstrel son,) 
Whose chace was crown 'd by Ath wold's 
death. 

Let him be deem'd the guilty one. 
But loyal thralls and subjects said — 
And shook the superstitious head — 
* ' 'Twas ne'er the king ; for Alban's dart 
Had cleft, that morn, the stag's stout heart. 
While Edgar's, though it aim'd to kill, 
Was but a bloodless arrow still ; — 
An augury that well should show 
The noble Athwold's midnight foe. 



140 THE LADYE CHACE. 

XLIII. 

And this ere Autumn's leaves were falling, 
But ere the Christmas chimes were calling, 
The merry bells, I ween, rung round 
With a gayer, sweeter sound 
"Than ever they had rung before 
For Britain's monarchs wed of yore. 

XLIV. 

'Tis the dark and sombre aisle 
Of an old cathedral pile; 
Yet its arches gray are gleaming. 
And the swinging censers steaming, 
As aloft they waft the prayer ! 
Now the organ rolleth there; 
And, as sweet the hymn is stealing. 
By the altar-pace are kneeling 

The noble and the fair. 
Hark ! again the organ pealing ; 
And from glittering cross to ceiling, 

See the waxen tapers flare. 

Surplic'd boys those tapers bear ; 
And the figure, stern and grim, 
That beneath the rood-loft dim, 

Comes to bind and bless the pair. 



THE LADYE CHACE. I4I 

'Tis St. Dunstan — he whose throne 
England's Church supreme doth own, 
Patriarch and Primate he 
In St. Austin's ancient see. 

XLV. 

His mitred head is o'er them bending ; 

List ! the whisper'd vows ascending — 

See how rosy smiles the bride ! 

To the priest she hath replied : 

And the wreath is on her brow, 

And the blessing said ; and now 

Ring ye merry chimes once more ! 

Joyous^ring — the bridal's o'er ! 
And adown the stony aisle, 
Cheer'd by many a beauteous smile — 
Her own more beautiful, the while — 

Walks the lovely, newly wed, 

By her royal bridegroom led. 

Strew with evergreens her way; 

Yule is near — let all be gay. 

Bring the sacred holly now. 

Bring the Druid's mystic bough, 

Ring ye bells — let trumpets sound. 

For the bride she shall be crown'd — 



142 THE LADYE CHACE. 

She shall live and reign serene 
Edgar's and merry England's queen. 

ENVOY. 

But thou, mine own fresh-featured land, 
Dear from far cliff to ocean sand : • 
Bright clime where sinks the setting sun — 
Last which the day-god looks upon ; 
Where blooms the bay-tree in its pride — 
Not that which by old Delphi's side, 
Entwin'd with myrtle, crown'd, of yore. 
The warrior bard whom Doris bore — 
But that which o'er savannahs blows. 
More fair than Daphne's laurel-rose'>— 
The broad magnolia, branching high. 
With odours for the summer sky, 
Whose leaves the angel-muse of song 
Hath planted our green shores along, 
To crown the poet-race which here — 
Her last, best boast — she means to rear : 
Bright land of river, rock and wild. 
Where nature charms her poet child, 
Though clear thy skies and broad thy 

waters, 
Thy glory is thy radiant daughters — 



THE LADYE CHACE. 143 

Maidens like those for whose sweet smile, 
Of old, in their maternal isle. 
The minstrel oft hath sung the lay 
That gains their gentle ear to-day ; 
Nor deem'd the idle tale he gave 
Should cross the undiscover'd wave. 
And by a kindred race be known, 
Who call his laurell'd harp their own. 



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